


Never Leaving Harmony

by bluemoves98



Category: Elton John (Musician), Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Angst, Dealing with death/grief, Depictions of Disordered Eating, Depictions of mental health issues, Depictions of self harm in many forms, Drug use/misuse, Hurt/Comfort, I don't wanna put any spoiling tags so I'll leave it here, Implied sex - never highly graphic, M/M, Slow Burn, also none of the main characters die I'm not evil, and I wouldn't say the odd scene of violence is extremely graphic, and it sounds very depressing and it sure can be melancholy at times, and this should go without saying, but I labelled it as such to be on the safe side for anyone reading this, but don't let that put you off. there are many sweet moments as well, but don't romanticize the problematic circumstances, depictions of an abusive relationship, i am not encouraging drug use!, that is not the intention or the message. just so you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 180,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluemoves98/pseuds/bluemoves98
Summary: Finally, he's got his hands on a break. Some time to try to rest a few of his bones. When normality, reality—or, his perception of those things—sticks its foot in the door, he isn't sure he wants to go with it. Not yet, at least. But what can he do?Just one of the many highs and lows of living, of being Elton John. How could one of the most successful artists on the planet, who has the entire world in his hands, not feel on top of it?
Relationships: Elton John/Bernie Taupin
Comments: 35
Kudos: 35





	1. Not One Of Those Who Can Easily Hide

**Author's Note:**

> I'd say not to read this story if you feel you could be triggered or even just made to feel uncomfortable by topics in the tag list. Or, at least, beware of these things.  
> ALSO: if you're struggling with any of the topics in this, please reach out and get the help you deserve!
> 
> THIS STORY IS FICTION. ENTIRELY. EVEN SCENES/SITUATIONS/EVENTS BASED ON OR DERIVED FROM REAL OCCURRENCES ARE STILL COMPLETELY FALSE. I MADE IT UP. ANYTHING BASED ON TRUTH IS ONLY FOR TIMELINES/FUN/TO MAKE IT COME TO LIFE. I AM NOT INSINUATING THAT ANY OF THIS HAS THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING TRUE. ALL CHARACTERS ARE MADE-UP, EVEN THOSE ULTIMATELY BASED ON REAL PEOPLE (INCLUDING THE MAIN CHARACTERS). I AM ALSO NOT SAYING ANY OF THE PEOPLE THEY ARE BASED ON TRULY HAVE OR HAD THESE STATES OF MIND (OPINION, MENTAL HEALTH, OR OTHERWISE)  
>   
> I AM NOT/THIS STORY IS NOT AFFILIATED WITH ANY OF THE PEOPLE INCLUDED AND I MEAN NO DISRESPECT TO ANY OF THEM (ANY, YO!) I AM A HUGE FAN AND EVEN THOUGH IT DEALS WITH SOME HEAVY TOPICS, OVERALL IT IS ONLY A BIT OF ENTERTAINMENT. IT'S FANFICTION, PLEASE TAKE IT AS SUCH.
> 
> NONE OF THE MENTIONED SONGS ARE MINE, THEY BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, WHO ARE ALSO NOT AFFILIATED. There's also a playlist of them, which you can listen to (if you care to) [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3eeQ4Jshw2TmAZh7Ty7nxz?si=PtsPRuTkRniGFoEbcQChZA). THE MAIN TITLE AND ALL* CHAPTER TITLES ARE SNIPPETS FROM SONGS BY ELTON JOHN AND THEY ARE AS FOLLOWS:  
> HARMONY  
> YOUR SONG  
> CAGE THE SONGBIRD  
> BOOGIE PILGRIM  
> CAPTAIN FANTASTIC & THE BROWN DIRT COWBOY  
> YOUR SISTER CAN'T TWIST (BUT SHE CAN ROCK N ROLL)  
> EGO  
> CAPTAIN FANTASTIC (AGAIN)  
> BETTER OFF DEAD  
> WRITING  
> FEED ME  
> STREET KIDS  
> THE FOX  
> THE CAGE  
> FEED ME (AGAIN)  
> BOOGIE PILGRIM (AGAIN)  
> STINKER  
> NOBODY WINS  
> CAPTAIN FANTASTIC (AGAIN)  
> GREY SEAL  
> *EXCEPT CHAPTER 10 WHICH IS A SNIPPET FROM 'LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS' BY THE BEATLES & CHAPTER 16 WHICH IS A SNIPPET FROM 'COSMIC DANCER' BY T. REX. I DONT OWN THESE.
> 
> This is the only platform I have posted this to so far, so if you find it elsewhere, it was posted WITHOUT my permission.
> 
> I'm **@boogiepilgrim** on tumblr. @bluemooves on Instagram.
> 
> The only things I do own are the **characters** created and the story itself. I'm here for any (appropriate) art or any other creative thing you wanna make in relation to it.. go ham! ✨ Ofc TLC and thought went into this, but while saying that, I implore you not to take it _too_ seriously. It's a fictional story. I kinda initially wrote it for nobody but myself, but now that it's finished, I thought I'd share. I hope someone else likes it, too. Enjoy!

+

Bernie’s skin wasn’t weathered by the sun, though it probably should have been, given the amount of time he spent in it. Instead, he was kissed by it, blessed by it. Completely.

He took a step backwards, pulling his gingham handkerchief from his pocket with a flag-like crack. He smiled, though his blue eyes were already wincing from the sun finally calling it a day and settling behind the hills in the distance.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, dabbing his tawny forehead. “Thanks for stopping by on such short notice. Means a lot.”

“It’s alright.” The backs of Joe’s hands wiped his own face, one after the other, the action barely doing anything to remove the sheen from his skin, then he adjusted the bandage on his left. “I couldn’t have let you get on with that on your own. Broken wrist or not.”

His face _was_ weathered. As were his hands. Maybe not solely from the sun, he was bound to be about sixty. He also didn’t possess even half the amount of rugged handsomeness Bernie did when doing something as slobby as wiping sweat and dirt from his face.

“Sure, but you were supposed to have already started your break by now,” Bernie said. “Really, I’m beyond grateful.”

“You called. You can always count on me, you know that.”

“I do.”

“Doesn’t matter when or what.”

“Of course.”

Elton’s face was scrunched up, eyes jumping back and forth between the pair like they were watching the slowest tennis match in the world take place, then he shielded them with a slightly pasty hand. Like Joe, he wasn’t so blessed, but he wanted to be. He made a mental note before coming here. _Spend more time in the sun, for Christ’s sake._ He’d pictured doing so on a nice blanket, or perhaps tying his hammock to a pair of trees and lounging there. Not winded and running after a bunch of chickens for forty minutes in the piercing heat. Still, that had to be good exercise. And there was still time left to rectify how he’d get his tan. Still time.

He peered in at them, all of them now soundly clucking in their coop, heads twitching as they looked back through the wire. They were just fine, completely unfazed by the entire ordeal. Meanwhile, his own breath and heart were still racing each other, both likely visible through his clothes that were frankly and uncomfortably glued to him. He felt glamorous indeed. But rewarded, even though only a little, given the amount he was actually able to help in getting them back. “I was no help,” he huffed. “All I did was round them up, then stand there shooing them away while you two grappled with _sheep_ , and then a metre-wide hole in the fence. I couldn’t have helped with that. No fucking chance.”

“But you helped.” Bernie flung his handkerchief over his shoulder. “If you hadn’t spotted the hole and that lot casually strolling out through it in the first place, it would’ve been more than a few of the chickens getting out. Those sheep would’ve been long gone.”

“Bernie’s got some wily sheep,” Joe said. “I tell you. Haven’t seen the likes.”

“And there you were wrangling them with your injured bloody hand!” Elton laughed, pointing accusingly. He stopped to set his hand on his hip. “Mind you, though, even if I did know a single thing about fixing fences, I couldn’t have done it anyway. Need to keep these little fingers in top form, you know.”

Bernie smiled. “Couldn’t have done it without either of you.”

“I was glad of the excuse to get out.” Joe leaned against the stone wall that hemmed off a section of the chickens’ run. He ran his fingers along the rocky seams as if he were probing for a water source. “Reeny’s going about the house like a headless chicken herself, getting everything ready, packing and whatnot. Oh, I can’t thank you enough, Bernie. She’s simply delighted, she really is.”

“Well, let’s hope none of my chickens are headless, Joe. And don’t mention it. Honestly.”

“Is he sending you two off to anywhere nice?” Elton asked, swiping at the fresh sweat he felt sprout on his forehead. “Can’t remember.”

“He is indeed,” Joe said. “Morocco.”

“Oh, yes! Yes, I remember. You’ll love it. I’ve been there.”

“Reeny’s always wanted to go. Since, oh, I’d say about twenty years ago, she first mentioned it. Finally, we’re getting around to it. Think she’s looking forward to all the little markets and things, the sun… Though, I’d say today’s heat could’ve given Marrakech a run for its money! Camel rides. She’s been raving about that, too. Looking forward to everything it has to offer, that girl. Me, I just want her to have a good time. Anything for a quiet life, right?”

They all laughed. Elton, a little forcibly so.

“Oh, I’m joking,” Joe said. “Only joking.”

“You enjoy yourself, too,” Bernie said. “Get immersed. When you come back, I don’t want to only be hearing about Irene’s escapades.”

Joe nodded, lifted his tweed cap, and scuffed his fingers through his unruly, fair hair. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. It’s the least I could do for you after all you’ve done for me. Not just today, over the past, what—”

“Almost five years,” Joe said.

“You haven’t been counting, have you? Sheesh. Must really be treacherous working for me if that’s how you’re putting your days in.”

“Scratching lines into the walls, ey, Joe?” Elton curled his finger in the air, imitating the imagery he had in his head of Joe slumped against the wooden stable wall, carving a tally with one of those horseshoe picks. “That’s day number 1883 over me…”

“No, no,” Joe laughed. “Of course not. Bernie, I- I always tell you, doing this isn’t really no job to me. It’s how I like to spend my time.”

Bernie pushed a lock of his mahogany-dark hair behind his ear. “I know.”

“It’s tough at times, you know that as well as I do by now. Hard work. But that’s… that’s what it’s all about.”

“That’s what it’s all about.”

“It comes with it. Makes it what it is.”

“It sure does.”

“I like it that way. And it’s essential work.”

Bernie tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, then waggled his finger at him. “That’s why you and I got along so well from the offset, man. We think the same way.”

Joe smiled back at Bernie’s contagious expression, and Bernie rubbed his hands together.

“And you’re not the only one having a break,” Bernie said. “Sure, Elton’s doing the same. That’s why he’s here.”

Joe turned to Elton, bushy eyebrows raising at least an inch. “ _You_ do a different kind of job! That kind of thing, a break is needed. Mandatory. Don’t know how you’re not mad as a March hare by now. I think I would be. In fact, I’ve no doubt.”

“Yeah, well.” Elton shrugged. “Think I’ve still got some time left for that.”

“It won’t be happening,” Bernie said, his tone strengthening like he hadn’t taken that as a joke.

“Not as long as you have something to do with it,” Joe said.

Bernie nodded affirmatively.

Elton wasn’t sure if he had meant it as a joke. It was likely that Joe didn’t even fully know how right he was.

He pointed at Elton with his bandaged hand. “You enjoy your break, too. You deserve yours more than I do.”

“I am going to enjoy it,” Elton told him. “I have been enjoying it. These last two weeks have been heavenly, I’ve been able to do fuck all, which is a dream. And I still have another full week to do just that all over. Can’t wait. Especially after this fiasco.”

“Just the three?”

Elton nodded.

“Eh. Suppose it’s still a break for you all the same.”

“Mm-hm.” Elton loosened the twisted bandana he’d wrapped around his neck, allowing air to sneak in. It was the same shade of yellow as his top was, and it looked good with the dungarees, but he was more than beginning to second-guess it as a fashion statement now. “And it took me long enough to get. So I’d better enjoy it.”

Joe shook his head with disapproval.

“About five months of bargaining, to be exact.” Elton smiled while he said it, but the memory attached was anything but pleasant. “My boss isn’t as easy-going as yours is.”

“I know that. I don’t think anybody’s is. Nobody’s boss gives them a holiday to Morocco for nothing.”

“Enjoy your time off, Joe,” Bernie said, with an air of finality. “It wasn’t for nothing. And you’ll be back in no time. Until then, you’ve got yourself ten days to sit on a beach with a glass of something good in your hands. Not hay, or—”

“Horse shit,” Elton said.

Bernie tilted his head to one side. “Yeah. Horse shit.”

“I’d like to think not. That’d be some bad service!”

They laughed, Joe bellowing at his own joke like some kind of prehistoric bird, then Bernie looked towards the stables across the yard. “Speaking of horse shit, I’ll need to go and settle the gang down for the night.”

“They’ll be wondering where you are,” Joe said, patting his pockets for the reassuring jingle of keys.

“They will.”

The three of them walked down the crazy-paved pathway, then their shoes shovelled over the gravel to stop a metre from Joe’s old grey truck.

“Maybe you should quit letting the chickens out of that little run,” Elton said, thumbing back in the direction they came from. “They have enough outdoor space there, don’t they? More than enough. Save you hassle.”

“They do. Oh, they do, but I like to give them a little extra,” Bernie said with a soft smile. “I like to give them a bit more free-will when I can. You know me.”

Elton smiled back, because he did.

Bernie exchanged more extended goodbyes with Joe, and then gave him a quick hug while Elton gave him a smile.

He’d always liked him, almost instantly upon meeting him, just like Bernie said he had. Three men had answered his ad, but he’d chosen Joe. He’d been the oldest, but that hardly mattered. As soon as Bernie introduced him as a hired hand for strenuous ranch duties, or ranch duties that required tending to when Bernie was on the road, Elton had liked him. He was genuine. He was robust. Maybe that was what showed on his face.

“You two boys have fun,” Joe said, in a paternal way that made Elton’s insides twist, as if electrified, but only for a second. He watched as Bernie pulled the door open for Joe, and Joe gave him a thanking pat on the arm as he hurled himself into his seat.

“We will,” Bernie said.

Joe clicked his seat belt into place. “Thanks a million, Bernie. Truly, truly. I am looking forward to it.” He looked ahead at the gates, a tad misty-eyed. “Really.”

Bernie touched his arm. “Let Irene know I’ve been wondering how she’s doing. And send her my best wishes for Morocco as well, not that she needs them. Oh, and tell her that that ginger cake recipe she sent up with you the other day was perfect. Incredible. I failed to mention that to her the last time I saw her. It was great. Wasn’t it, Elton?”

Elton cartoonishly enthused, “The best!”

“Alright,” Joe said. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Then Joe’s engine spluttered into life and Bernie slung his door shut, patting it twice.

“Have fun,” Joe said, rolling his window down.

Elton held his thumb up.

“How can we have anything but?” Bernie said.

“And don’t be doing anything I wouldn’t do!” Joe cried out over the rattling of his truck.

“That’s what we should be saying to you,” Elton said.

Bernie laughed. “How could we anyway, Joe? You do everything here!”

“See ya, Bernie. See ya, Elton.”

“Later, man.”

“Bye!” Elton waved at him until his truck was a blurred spot in the distance, then turned to Bernie.

“I take it you’re not coming with me to do the horses,” Bernie said.

“You’re absolutely right.”

“Or the rest of them, for that matter.”

“How’d you know?”

“I know you better than I know the back of my hand.”

“I don’t believe that’s how that phrase goes.”

“It’s my own take on it. I don’t know you _like_ the back of my hand, I know you better.” Bernie held his right hand up, dirty knuckles forward. “I couldn’t tell you if that’s the hand with the mole on it or not. But I can tell you that you’re not trekking all the way back to the other side to stand and watch me sort the horses out when you could be curled up with Rhubarb and Custard on your hammock. You’re tired.”

“I am. And I’m close to roasting, I think.”

Bernie rolled his denim jacket’s sleeves back up to his elbows. “Understandably. You helped me a ton today yourself—”

“Was that a rare sight?”

Bernie dropped his eyebrows and continued, “Cheers for that.”

“I held things while you did things.”

“Yes. And you ran a wheelbarrow of tools from the stables all the way over there.” Bernie pointed across the grounds to where the rehabilitated fence stood. “That’s helping.”

“I’m sure that was quite the sight to behold. Jesus.”

“That fence wouldn’t have been repaired in half the time if you hadn’t’ve done that.”

“That fence I stood and watched you and a middle-aged man fix.”

“You helped. You stopped the chickens from getting out, didn’t you?”

Elton scratched his head. “Fair enough… And I did feed your cats today.”

“Exactly.”

He supposed he had done quite a bit, especially by his usual standards. “Okay.”

“Man.” Bernie squinted. “Still don’t know how that happened to the fence. That was a big fucking hole.”

Elton snorted, bringing a hand to his mouth.

"Quit it, you… And it was like it happened in the blink of an eye, too.”

“I would’ve thought foxes,” Elton said seriously, “but you said you didn’t see it last night… and I don’t think a fox would try to pull off an operation like that one in broad daylight.”

“No, and any smart one would dig under.”

“Suppose.”

“I dunno. Probably was a fox or something and we just didn’t notice it ‘til today. I’ll obviously need to keep a better eye out. That was a wild one. One minute it was fine, the next minute, chaos. Well, at least that’s it dealt with now. That should be our troubles sorted.”

“You’re lucky I caught a glimpse of your girls making a break for it.”

“I am,” Bernie said. “I seriously am. But you’re not here to work. You’ve done more than enough the past few weeks.”

“This was the first day I really did anything.”

Bernie raised a finger that was lightly powdered with mud. “Tomorrow, you’re sitting with your feet up, I don’t care. You didn’t come here to run around the place.”

“I don’t mind it, dear boy, it was fun.” Elton patted his stomach. “It’d take something to get me to run.”

Bernie looked at him seriously.

“Did you hear that? That was a little poem there.”

“I do appreciate it, though, Elton. I really do.”

Elton physically couldn’t stop himself from smiling, at him and his sweetness, then at his right hand that was back dangling at his side. He pointed to it. “And that’s not your mole hand, it’s the other one.”

Bernie turned his left hand around to check, then he too smiled.

“Just thinking…” Bernie’s fingers now held his chin. “I need to water a few of the plants as well. The ones there.” He nodded to the flower boxes that lined his driveway, then pointed to the newer potted plants on the veranda. “Some of those guys need a drink, too, if I’m remembering right.”

“So does this guy.” Elton stuck his tongue out, hoping how parched it felt was properly conveyed.

“Go water yourself. I’ll meet you inside when I’m finished out here.”

Elton went inside and shed his shoes. The soles of his feet felt bruised. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of Bernie’s homemade apple juice, and drank it as he padded to the hammock at the bay window in the living room. He cracked one side open, just enough. The cats were nowhere in sight.

He unpinned the clasps holding his dungarees up, letting the denim hang loose around him, and carefully slid into the fabric sling, and it automatically swung gently.

The air inside was as thick, but not in an unpleasant way. Outside, the air was brushing through the trees, shaking them to and fro, creating a sea-like sound that washed a balmy breeze through the window. The leaves seemed to graze against the amber-coloured sky like they were to be credited with painting it. The sun, the true artist, looked as if it too had been painted, but in numerous coats of rich honey, the tranquil hue leaking over everything its light still managed to touch. Midges hovered in swarming clusters spotted along the lengths of trees that stood in the acres of open grass. Birds perched in the branches chirped, singing along to the harmonies nature was making for the last time before nightfall crept in.

He’d seen and heard all of it a hundred times over, but every time felt different. A fresh start. Bernie had created his own off-grid haven in the heart of Lincolnshire, surrounding himself with the things that made him happiest. And it never would have been what Elton would have pictured himself thinking of as his ideal place of refuge, that sort of rustic living, but that was exactly what it had become to him, too.

Touring had been almost constant until two weeks ago, taking up space in his mind for so long. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was stuck in a studio, lamenting over the next album. He loved doing both of those things, really, but even when you’re doing something you adore non-stop, time to recharge is still appreciated, and vital, every now and then. Of that, he was certain. Doing bare minimum work at Bernie’s ranch didn’t feel the same, not at all, but he still struggled to see how Joe could find it so difficult to go on a holiday.

Elton rested back, looking at the pictures decorating the quaint wallpaper.

That old black-and-white picture of Mr. and Mrs. Taupin had been front and centre in every one of Bernie’s collections of photographs over the years. In his shoe-box of loose ones he kept below the bunk bed they shared when staying at his own mother’s house; in his humble display of all of them in frames on the mantelpiece when they had finally broken away and got their mitts on a place of their own; then, incidentally, when that fell through, as things tended to, back to a shoe-box beneath the bed.

Now, they adorned the walls of _his_ house, which was an old, refurbished farmhouse fringed with a veranda, its porch held up by tree-trunk-like hunks of wood, all nestled in countryside that ran for miles, the more rural and slightly sylvan part of which was teeming with wildlife and picturesque creeks. All of it, every last speck, his.

Like his parents before him, pictured here with their arms around each other, each beaming proudly in front of the farmhouse Bernie grew up in, Bernie mostly and impressively tended to the land he owned himself. Apart from the odd hand from Joe, or Elton, apparently, everything he could manage on his own, he did, without so much as a peep. He was as self-sufficient as they came. Loved every minute of it. He even lived off the land, growing vegetables and fruit when England’s climate could support their welfare. He’d recently set his mind and green thumb to growing a variety of other plants, both indoor and out, as a hobby. He could put his mind to anything and accomplish it, all the while making it seem so, so easy. The reason he set his heart on a ranch in the first place, besides being inspired by his parents, was to have horses, which he now owned three of. He also owned a dog, two cats, seven wily sheep, a goat, a donkey, a small horde of escape artist chickens, and a single cow, for good measure. Another childhood dream come true, because by literal definition, that made him a cowboy. He could set his mind to anything and see it through.

Anything.

The front door shut quietly, locking. Elton didn’t hear it open. He peeled off the bandana that was practically pasted to his neck by now and removed his glasses, stretching to set them both on the window sill.

“Back,” Bernie called, and appeared in the archway connecting the hall to the living room.

“Back,” Elton mimicked.

Bernie floated to the plants hanging from either end of the curtain rail. He smirked, drizzling water over the second pot of spoon-shaped leaves. “That apple juice is good, isn’t it?”

Elton raised his almost-empty glass. “It is. England’s very best.”

“Thanks, man.”

Bernie went around the few plants that sat in the corners of the room and on bookshelves, dashing them appropriately. He hovered at one that Elton knew was… a bamboo orchid? Yes. If his memory served him correctly.

“What age is Joe?” Elton asked, watching the water _tick, tick, tick_ off the orange petals.

“Fifty six, I think. Why?”

Elton leaned to set his glass on the window sill. “Wondered.”

“He just… doesn’t like quitting on things.”

Elton’s mind trailed back to hearing about Joe hopping out of the hay baler mere days prior to this one, stumbling, and going over on his wrist, doing a number on it. “But he broke his wrist. If I broke my wrist, I’d be using that as an excuse for everything.”

“Yeah, but, like I told you, after that, he got straight back up and ploughed on. He’d find something he could do if I let him. In all the time he’s worked here, he hasn’t taken an actual break. Not once. So, in a way, I’m kind of glad he’s got a broken wrist.”

“My, aren’t you lovely?”

They both started laughing, and Bernie turned to face him.

“He wouldn’t have caved otherwise,” he said. “He would’ve handed me the plane tickets back. What he doesn’t know is that even when he gets back, I won’t be letting him do all the stuff he usually does. Not because of his age, he knows that, he’s not even that old… But ten days isn’t long enough for that to fully heal. I wouldn’t let anybody work with that. Today was a one-off.”

Elton stretched his foot from the hammock to bound it against the wall, launching himself back into a hearty metronome-style swing. “Doesn’t he listen to his doctor?”

Bernie shook his head. “I think if Joseph Walker’s doctor told him he couldn’t work again, there was a ninety percent chance that he’d somehow die instantly if he did, he’d still take the chance. You saw him today. It’s in him to be that way. Loves doing this more than anything. More than me, possibly.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Bernie looked at him. “What’re your plans for the rest of the evening?”

Elton slouched, pouring further into the hammock. “Dunno.”

Bernie went to set the watering can in the hall and returned. “Taking it easy?”

“Take it _eeeeasaay_ ,” Elton sang. “Yes, actually, exactly that. As The Eagles say to do.”

“I’d love to hear that,” Bernie whispered suddenly, then went off to the record player, sitting down in front of it to rustle through the modest collection of records he had stored below it while Elton slipped into a doze that he’d felt coming on half the day. Half the week. Possibly more. Had to be more. It was hard to keep track. He hadn’t had the level of calm required for a nap in what felt like a million years. It felt good. In that moment between sleep and reality, and even before it, there had been a loss of sense of time, not place. God, he could never forget where he was, he didn’t want to, not here. The hours and days passing were no longer trackable, and what a relief that was. The only thing was that they were elusive, seemed to go too fast. But he felt uplifted, finally. Life had never seemed so good.

“Elton. _Elton_. Reggie, man, are you awake?”

Elton’s eyes sleepily fluttered open, a placid smile forming on his face when he saw Bernie reaching across from the pouffe he was sat on, gently nudging at his arm.

Bernie was smiling back at him, freshly bathed; the scent of that lavender soap he liked was strong, getting carried along by the breeze, and he’d changed his clothes, and his hair was still a little damp.

Elton wouldn’t react with a pleasant smile to anyone calling him Reggie (or any variation of it) these days, it physically made his toes curl. But Bernie could get away with it. He was the only one who could, who ever dared to, but even he wouldn’t go as far as to say its full form. That would be too far. That was the unspoken rule. It was something of a light-hearted inside joke between the pair, or a sweet nickname. It didn’t _mean_ the same thing when it came from Bernie.

And it didn’t really pack the same sour punch when thought of that way.

Elton smacked his lips.

The old record player quietly crackling through The Strawbs’ song ‘Dragonfly’ in the background became apparent again. The records Bernie had been putting on and changing out like a silent record changer had kind of dulled into the back of his mind.

He sat up a little, and Bernie breathed a laugh.

“Today’s been really good,” he said, in a mellow tone that was synonymous with his entire essence. “Hasn’t it? All things considered, of course.”

“Yeah.”

Bernie stood up, raking his fingers through his hair, shaking it back.

“I’m going to get us something tasty to drink,” he said, glancing towards the kitchen as he stretched out his back. He looked back at Elton. “I’ll fetch us something to snack on, too. I’m _hungry_ , are you?”

Elton offered a coy smile, nodding, watching Bernie as he sauntered across to the kitchen, where he began rattling around in the fridge and cupboards, pulling out drawers. Elton closed his eyes again.

Bernie was so good to him. So good. What did he ever do to deserve any of this? To deserve him?

“Still feeling dreamy, ey?”

Bernie was standing by him once again, two large bowls nestled into one another in one hand, and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc wine in the other, two grapefruits tucked between his elbow and hip. He set everything down on the cushioned window sill nook before perching himself on it as well, cross-legged.

“A bit, yeah,” Elton answered him, carefully slinging his feet over the edge of the hammock, toes brushing against the heap of a dog lying there. Awake, she was a rough and ready Heeler/Border Collie mix, mostly black and grey save for a smudge of brown on her snout. Mud was her name. Asleep, and being perceived through eyes that currently lacked much-needed glasses, she was barely distinguishable from a boulder, and about as receptive as one. She didn’t stir at the swipe against her back, but Elton felt the need to whisper an apology as he hopped off to climb up and sit opposite his best friend.

The gentle and still-tepid breeze swept over Elton’s face as he moved closer to the window. It was soothing. He put his glasses back on and looked intently at the peaceful scene outside again, and a small rabbit pattered by before dashing out of sight among the conifers. He smiled, looking back at Bernie, who was arranging the things in the space between them.

“It’s really beautiful,” Bernie commented thoughtfully, even though he hadn’t witnessed the sweet moment Elton had. He broke into the skin on one of the grapefruits with a fizzle, peeling it like you would an orange.

Elton watched him avidly. Bernie made the simplest of things seem so charming; enchanting, almost. He’d never say that to him, it would crack him up if Elton told him he sat and watched him peeling a piece of fruit and found it _enchanting_ , but part of him also knew that Bernie already knew, in some sort of way. In the same way that they could have a conversation without speaking. They were that close, that bonded, that some things went without saying.

Bernie set the slimy segments of fruit into one of the bowls, laying them in a circle and intricately layering them on top of each other so that it looked like some kind of pattern or flower. Elton wasn’t sure if he’d done that on purpose or if he was placing them in mindlessly, or perhaps just positioning them in the most practical way for their shape so that they neatly stacked together. But that was the kind of simple thing Elton found so captivating.

He watched him lift the next grapefruit, dig his fingertips into the skin, but this time, a shot of juice sprayed out at him, leaving tiny red speckles across the collar of his lemon shirt and making him scrunch up his face. Elton snorted, and the pair erupted into laughter.

“Damn it.” Bernie looked down at himself as Elton continued laughing. “Well, I suppose it’s just a natural cologne, isn’t it? Look, it got me right there. Smells good, though.”

“At least it didn’t get you in the eye.”

“Yeah, well, at least you’ve got glasses to protect you if that ever happens,” he quipped back, making Elton cackle again.

“What are you making with the grapefruits, anyway?” Elton asked, giggles subsiding. He motioned to the other bowl, which he now noticed had what looked like salt and something red minced through it. “With that.” He dipped down to smell the mix. The air was prickly; it smelled hot and nice.

“Crushed chilli,” Bernie informed, still smiling crookedly. He laid the rest of the pieces of fruit on top of the others in the bowl. “It’s good, you’ll like it.”

“Never would’ve thought of pairing grapefruit with a vegetable before,” Elton said, eyebrows warily drawn. “Especially something spicy.”

“Chillis are a fruit,” Bernie said, lifting a segment. “It’s good. They complement each other. Look, you just do this.” He dipped the grapefruit into the salt and chilli, and took a generous bite. He hummed. “Amazing.”

Elton watched his face react to the flavour, then lifted one and tried it himself. Grapefruit was one of their go-to snacks. He didn’t grow those himself, but Elton had never actually tried one until he met Bernie. At least, not in any form that wasn’t gin-based.

“Mm.” Elton nodded to the pace of his chewing.

Bernie’s face lit up. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Elton covered his mouth. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “I like it.”

“What did I tell you?”

Bernie threw the rest of his grapefruit into his mouth and reached for the wine glasses to fill them up.

Elton took his, flashing a smile as a thank you, holding the glass against his lips. Bernie returned the expression as an acknowledgement, a ‘you’re welcome.’

“You should always trust me about these things, Reg.” Bernie took a sip of his wine. “Remember, yesterday, you were turning your nose up at apples dipped in peanut butter? Then you liked it.”

“I’d just never done it before.” Elton exhaled into his glass, then followed suit: taking a mouthful and leaning back against the frame of the window. “Cut me some slack. I’ve lived a more sheltered life.”

The day before, they had gone down to the far end of Bernie’s land, where he had a small but thriving orchard, picked a couple of apples, and brought them back to the house, where Bernie chopped them up, made juice out of some, and served the rest with a pot of peanut butter. Elton hadn’t imagined that to work, but it had.

“Right, to an extent,” Bernie said. “Not that sheltered. But you know I wouldn’t get you to try something you wouldn’t like. Have a little faith in me, man, I know you better than you know yourself.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Nuh-uh. Definitely true.”

Elton took a generous gulp. “Sure.”

“I may be a country bumpkin,” Bernie began, and Elton held up a hand.

“Have to stop you there. Now, surely you know that _I_ know you’re more refined than that. Being born in a barn doesn’t _really_ make you a hallion, you know, don’t be so down on yourself.”

He wasn’t truly born nor raised in a barn, of course, but a farmhouse—the one his parents owned. Next best thing. So, it was a turn of phrase Elton liked to use in reference to him.

“I know that, and I wear my country bumpkin status as a badge of honour, thank you very much.” Bernie held up a finger. “ _But_ what I was saying before you interrupted me was that I know what works. You can count on me not to poison you, alright? That’s what friends are for.”

“Not to poison each other?”

Bernie laughed, and looked insanely handsome as he did. “I won’t hoodwink you.”

Everyone knew that Elton had a crush on Bernie. From the very start. All of their friends and members of the band knew about the time Elton had leaned in to kiss him after a drunken heart-to-heart where Bernie politely told him that he loved him, but not in that way. He also told him, later that same night, that he would’ve kissed him back, definitely, as a friend, and assured him that the only reason he hadn’t in the moment was because he didn’t want to give him any wrong signals, or, any false hope. At the time, Elton, slightly flustered, wondered, ‘Well, then, why didn’t you?’ But he knew it just wasn’t like that. It would’ve been worse if he’d kissed him, then said, ‘By the way, that meant nothing. We’re friends.’

And now, he was more than happy to just have him as a friend. Having him was more than enough. For Elton, at least, it was more than an extremely close friendship, more than still fancying him a little, even. He couldn’t really explain it, to himself or to anyone else. They’d always described it to each other, and to others in the past, as the other being ‘like the brother they never had.’ But Elton often thought that the truth, his own personal perception of what they were that didn’t even fit within the restrictions of language, surpassed even that definition. It was more than that. Bernie was like an extension of him, it was like they were cut from the same cloth and just so happened to get sewn together in this, and probably every other, lifetime. They were different in a million ways but the same in ten million more.

The reason their relationship felt so special simply might have been because Elton had never shared such a deep connection or closeness with anyone before. He didn’t know anyone else who shared an almost identical amount of passion for music and records with him—both listening to and creating. He didn’t have siblings like Bernie did. Bernie had a brother. The few friends Elton did have growing up were the kind of friends who only came to you when they had nobody else, or only invited you somewhere out of feeling like they had to, rather than wanting your company. But Elton was always too nice, too desperate, to ever tell them where to go. Eventually, he didn’t have to, they split on their own. He didn’t have to worry about that anymore because he had Bernie. Bernie would never do that to him. Bernie would never leave. And he liked to think Bernie knew the same was true in regard to him.

Both of them sat together, eating their grapefruit, not saying a word. Moments like this with him were never awkward. They would be with anyone else. But it was nice to just sit with him. Be in his presence. Have a connection over very little. They exchanged the odd glance and smile, but just enjoyed the moment, looking out the window at the scene creating itself for them, taking it all in, the translucent curtains dancing around each of them.

What did he do to deserve him?


	2. Things Look So Much Different To How They Looked Last Night

+

_“He is such a fucking bastard!”_

These were the words Elton hoarsely screamed again and again, from the hallway he’d been standing in for the last half hour, screeching with similar frustration down the line until the mirror in front of him showed his reddened face and bulging vein in his forehead.

The serenity from the past two weeks, from yesterday, had been completely eliminated, in a matter of minutes, via a phone call. From John Reid.

 _His_ entire essence, if you could call it that, even his name, was synonymous with antagonising, infuriating, and piece of shit. Most of the time, these days. But that wasn’t always the case—it used to be nothing but excitement, sweet kisses on cheeks, ‘I love yous,’ and corresponding silk dressing gowns. Fulfillment in every sense. He didn’t wear his red and purple dressing gown that went with Elton’s purple and red one anymore, and things like that, as well as moments like these, sometimes lead to an underlying worry that the love was gone. Sometimes Elton thought it was, other times he swore it. Sometimes, especially in moments like now, he even hoped it. But traces of past times were still there, still giving hope like a small lighthouse in malicious waves and ever-bleak fog; it was difficult to see, but when glimpses of it were within view, it made you hold out for the possibility of everything turning out good. Or at least alright. Even when things seemed hopeless.

Elton stormed out from the hallway, phone in hand, severed wire trailing at his heels.

He threw himself onto the sofa which was laden with colourful hand-knitted throws and cushions that Bernie had arranged so wonderfully, causing the blankets to unravel from their place tucked around the back and sending the cushions tumbling to the floor.

His thoughts flashed back to John telling him what an incompetent moron he was, causing more anger to erupt from within him. He yelled, thrashing around, causing further destruction to the set up. Normally, he wouldn’t have been so careless with Bernie’s beloved furniture, but today—right now—Bernie’s fixable decor was the least of his concerns.

Bernie appeared in the doorway, obviously from overhearing the all-too-familiar sound of Elton amidst one of his manager/boyfriend-induced frenzies, both worry and distress clear on his face. Observantly, he inched closer.

“What happened?”

Hearing the concern in his voice, one of the worst sounds in the world, Elton jolted to his feet with an extra dose of rage.

“This fucking—” he spat through harshly gritted teeth, holding up the dead phone, tapping it furiously. “This fucking _prick_ , he called here, called me, telling me I have to leave. No prior warnings, no explanation, then hangs up on me.” He laughed a humourless laugh, clenching the phone harder, plastic creaking. “And then… _then_ proceeds to talk to me like I’m a piece of shit for trying to call him back to talk about it!” He thinned his lips to suppress another yell, then another spark of rage lit inside of him, releasing it. “Fucking ridiculous!”

“Right, right.” Bernie took hold of both of Elton’s shoulders to steady him, attempt to ground him a little, mirroring absolutely zero percent of his aggravation. “What exactly happened?”

“He told me,” Elton began, trying to withhold raising his voice, still using the phone as an impromptu stress ball. “I have to leave here.” He widened his eyes. “Monday. Monday morning, Bernie. At fucking six. Six in the morning! That’s it, says nothing else, he hangs up. I call him back, he doesn’t answer, so I have to _keep_ calling him until he does fucking answer, then he proceeds to take my head off!” He groaned. “I don’t want to go back there. Not yet. _It’s Saturday_ , Bernie, I was meant to have a whole other week. He just loves making me fucking miserable…”

“What was his reason?”

“He says I need to get work done. Says I haven’t got enough time to be screwing around.”

“You’re not screwing around?”

“I know that. But that’s what he said. Says there’s nothing he can do about it, I have to go back. Of course, he’s lying, but I’ve got no choice but to do as he says. You should have heard him.” Elton shook his head before launching into a mocking rant, reciting some of John’s classic lines: “Oh, well, needs must, Elton. You don’t care about your career at all. You better be ready for six— _Do you hear me?_ I know you think you have nothing better to do, but you’ve got an album due. Oh, you’re such an idiot. You’re such a fucking idiot. Don’t call me nineteen times in a row ever again, Elton.” He tightened his fist, fingernails denting his palm. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t fucking have to call you back nineteen fucking times if you didn’t hang up on me without telling me fucking anything in the first place, would I?” He exhaled to release tension, but it didn’t work. “Asshole. I should fucking—”

Bernie weakened his grip. “Why do you put up with it?”

He meant well, he really did, but he didn’t understand. At all.

Elton tossed the ordeal around in his mind a dozen more times in the span of three seconds.

“I’m so fucking mad. How fucking dare he? How am I supposed to want to go back there when he’s acting like this? How does he expect me to want to work when he’s taking the last week I had to relax?” He stomped his foot and growled. “ _He_ let me have the break in the first damn place! This is so unfair. I could’ve been sitting on my ass, I should have been, instead of running around all bloody day after your stupid fucking chickens!”

Bernie only sighed and Elton let out another aggravated groan, pulling his arms from him.

“My break was fucking wasted. It was pointless. Some break this was. Fuck sake!”

Joe was bound to be in Morocco by now. And the thought of that, someone else getting to relax, getting a break, when he was being catapulted back into working with no say in the matter filled him with more rage. Rage so powerful it shook him. Rage _so_ powerful that he was almost certain it was unprecedented. He could’ve been here doing his damn job. Now, Bernie would have to stay behind a lot longer to do what Joe should have been doing, and come along some time after. God knew how long it’d take Bernie to get someone to fill Joe’s place while he was off sucking down cocktails with sand in his fucking boots.

It was cold, of course, to be bitter over an old man getting respite… but he didn’t even want to fucking go at first. Oh, that _fucking_ —

Knowing better, he held his tongue on voicing that thought. Bernie would have something to say. He could shrug off chicken slander, but he could also draw a line.

Then, in a knee-jerk reaction, Elton slung the phone as hard as he could across the room. It cracked against the corner of the wall, shards of jade plastic scattering across the floor. As it did, as Bernie gasped quietly, it occurred to him that that specific phone was one Bernie had gotten from his mother. Something he valued deeply. _Someone_ he valued deeply. Not just because it was his mother, but because she had died two years prior. Elton couldn’t relate to either sentiment. He didn’t treasure his own mother, and had never lost anyone of any significance. Still, as a human being, he knew what he’d done had to have hurt him, but was too caught up to say sorry right now.

He turned, letting out another frustrated groan, this one directed at himself for being so careless, so stupid, as he began to pace, two steps forward and two back.

“You didn’t need to do that…”

“You’re right, I didn’t, but it’s too late now, Bernie,” Elton snapped. Just like it was too late for many things. “In fact, I don’t need to do anything. The only thing I _need_ to do is die, so if you can’t help me with that, fuck off.”

Elton hoped he didn’t pick up on the sincerity of his statement, but Bernie’s face crumpled further, a familiar look that meant he had.

“I’m so fucking pissed off!” Elton was now saying seething thoughts aloud. “He doesn’t care about me. He treats me like shit. I already knew that. _You_ know that. But I still have to keep going back to him, because I have to, and nobody else would fucking want me.” His throat started to burn like he was going to cry. He didn’t want that happening on top of everything else he’d just dumped onto Bernie, so he held it back, his voice more fragile as a result. “That’s why I put up with it. He’s the only person who fucking wants me, so what else can I do?”

“That’s not true…” Bernie gingerly offered. “You deserve better than that. He’s not— he’s not good for you.”

“Oh, I know that.” Elton didn’t fully believe that, any of it, at all. He dropped his gaze, eyes darting back and forth in disorganised thought. He gave a wry smile, eyebrows momentarily lifting as he added, “But oh well, at least he fucks me. Yeah? That’s the best I can get.”

Bernie shook his head. “There’s more to a relationship, to intimacy, than sex, Elton. He—”

“Not for me.”

Bernie gave another hopeless sigh. “Well, is there anything I can… do for you?”

“No,” Elton answered honestly, exhausted, shaking the remaining anger from his fingers, trying again to release the tension in his frame. “I just… want to lie down.”

“That’s fine… go ahead.”

Elton walked towards the door, the shards of Bernie’s broken telephone catching his attention. He turned to face him again, shifting a piece with his foot. “Sorry about that… I’ll… lift it later. And I’ll buy you a new one.”

Bernie shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

+

Elton fell asleep for a while, only an hour or so. But before he did, he filed the day’s issues away with the rest of them, inside the overflowing metaphorical cabinet labelled ‘John.’

He learned that about himself, since meeting him. Things would piss him off at first, vehemently so, but once the initial storm passed, he could push them to the back of his mind; crush them, fold them over, and even somehow manage to sleep on top of them. He didn’t welcome them, he hated them—but he was now able to acknowledge that this was what happened in his life. Just his usual. And he could put up with it, the way he always had with every bad thing. They still existed—he still had to bring them out to sleep on every night, like a mattress for his subconscious. They were jagged and uncomfortable, like a piece of paper folded seven times, and forever trying to unfurl. And when they did, they were frayed and decrepit, in perfect condition to project themselves onto the insides of his eyelids and play on a loop before sleep finally took him.

When he awoke, he was greeted with the not so mollifying percussion of chopping coming from downstairs, and now, he could smell something cooking, something good. But if scent were visible, it would have been like a scene from _The Twilight Zone;_ an ominous mist seeping in below Bernie’s bedroom door.

Elton pushed the sheets back, heaving himself to his feet. He stepped over his clothes that were a crumpled puddle in the middle of the floor, and went to the mirror to lift his glasses from the dresser. He slid them up his nose and begrudgingly met eyes with his reflection. His eyes raked up and down, flat expression staring back every time he returned to it. His thumb rubbed against the side of his forefinger with unease.

He grimaced and pressed his palm to his paunch, slowly sliding it along, back and forth, to his soft love handles that dark pink indents clawed at. He took his eyes away from the mirror to look down at the everlasting disaster that was his body directly and sighed heavily, watching his belly fall forward, fresh stretch marks also carved into it and his inner thighs.

The only way he’d ever successfully slimmed down in the past was from taking his mother’s diet pills, and even then, it wasn’t a permanent or good solution. It didn’t work. It ended up making him gain any weight he’d lost back, and then some. Even when he’d gotten really into playing tennis a while back, it helped a bit, but when he stopped being so routine with it, the extra weight crept back on again. Just like it had done now, over the course of two weeks. Even when he was ‘fitter,’ he still didn’t look the way he wanted to. So, he’d accepted that he’d never be thin, never look good, and there was no point in ever trying to obtain something impossible. He was meant to be the way he was: fat, ugly, pug-nosed—the list could go on forever. So, why not make a joke of it?

The photographers for his second studio album—long before he had gotten into fashion in a big way, and appropriately self-titled—decided and bluntly told him that he was literally too ugly to be photographed, which resulted in the dimly-lit photograph they ended up using for its cover. Elton didn’t kick up a fuss, because they were right. Someone trying to help suggested that he should wear outlandish costumes, he said that was an excellent idea and jumped on it, and never looked back. Beyond not being shy to taking the mickey out of himself and just liking the idea of dressing up, since he’d always been forbidden from wearing anything other than formal clothes besides perhaps on Halloween, it was mainly going to be a front, a distraction, to compensate… for everything else.

He lifted his head to look back at the version of himself in the mirror, getting an accidental eyeful of his continually-balding scalp.

“Fuck sake,” he muttered, delicately running his fingertips through the thinning hair that still managed to be attached to his head. _I’m only twenty fucking eight._ He exasperatedly ran his hands down his face, dragging the skin. He always knew it was coming. It was no surprise—his _darling_ mother had promised him as much from the time he was ten. But seeing it, feeling it, was another level of depressing. And embarrassing. It had been thinning and falling out for years, but ever since he dyed what little hair he had pink about a year ago, it had gotten so much worse. He had since chalked up his reasoning for dyeing it to, again, trying to appear like he didn’t care about his appearance, or the state of his hair. He had dyed it plenty of times in the past, but the one time he didn’t go to his usual hairdresser, that _one_ time, he got in the shower that night, and his hair flaked off in cotton candy-like chunks; more than he’d ever seen come out at once. It made him panic, he thought he was going to exit the shower completely bald. He, luckily, didn’t, but the patchy mess he was left with didn’t really fill him with joy, either. He sat naked on the edge of his bed and had a quiet sob to himself. Safe to say, he didn’t bother fucking around with hair-dye again.

“Elton.”

His thoughts were interrupted by Bernie’s voice and a subtle two-knocks on the door.

“Yeah?”

“I’m making dinner,” Bernie said, not opening it. “Come out when you’re ready, okay? It’s almost done.”

“Sure,” Elton said, attempting to sound a little more chipper than the last version of himself that Bernie had spoken to. “I’ll be… out in a second.”

“Okay, man.”

 _Dinner._ Elton looked back at his reflection.

“That’s the last thing you need,” he said, pinching roughly at the fat that stuck to his waistline. He exhaled, looking himself in the eyes one more time.

He couldn’t ever be okay with what he saw, no matter what he did or how much he tried to just not think about it. It was a constant stress, for as long as he could remember. And only seemed to be getting worse.

He shoved his t-shirt back on and lifted the dressing gown that corresponded with nothing off the wardrobe door, putting it on, cinching the tie tightly around his waist.

+

“I cooked up some steak and eggs, done the way you like them.” Bernie set a large plate down on the peach place-mat. “Medium-well, sunny side up.” He gave a sweet smile to Elton who was standing awkwardly by the table. “Thought it might… help you feel better.”

Elton smiled back at him, trying to the best of his ability to seem grateful, despite the flipping his stomach was doing. The only part of the set up he truly could appreciate was the large glass of wine already poured out.

“Thank you.” Elton sat down, dragging the seat closer, continuing to feign a smile. He looked up at Bernie, who was still standing, something about his demeanor seeming slightly confused, or concerned.

“Thank you, seriously,” he assured him, simulating eagerness by lifting up the knife and fork, jostling in his chair. “I really, really appreciate it.”

Bernie smiled then. “You’re welcome.”

Elton was about to begin cutting up the steak when he noticed the empty place-mat across from his. He paused, anxious pang shooting through him, eyes widening for just a second. He waved to the space with his knife.

“What about you?” he asked playfully. “You not eating anything?”

“Of course.” Bernie grinned, hand on hip. “I’m starving, too. I wanted to make sure you liked it first.”

Elton looked down at the plateful in front of him while Bernie went to lift his own.

It looked nice. It smelled nice, too. And Bernie had gone to great measures to make it. The homemade hollandaise sauce oozing over everything, the touch of homegrown herbs garnishing—it made him feel bad for being repulsed by it. He did love food. It tasted good. But when he felt like this—which was most of the time lately—it made him feel disgusted, disgusting, and as if there were one hundred judgemental people watching him. Technically, there were. But they weren’t sitting in the room, they had front row seats inside his mind—his own train of thought. That didn’t make anything they said any less real or just plain hurtful. He couldn’t control them and they were mean, and because they lived inside his brain, they knew exactly the right things to say, and when to say them, to really get below his skin.

When he and Bernie ate something like grapefruit together, it never filled him with the same amount of revulsion as staring at this large slab of meat and three eggs did. _Three._

“Are you alright?”

Elton looked up, a little disconnected.

Bernie had stopped eating, and was frowning. “Is it okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, no, I’m fine, it’s fine,” he said, and stuck the knife into the steak, removing a chunk and pairing it with a sliver of egg. “It’s not the food. I’m just… still a bit stressed out.”

He put the food in his mouth and chewed, trying to hold eye contact with Bernie’s seemingly interrogative gaze from across the small table as he did so.

Bernie made another disgruntled face as he ate then swallowed, shaking his head. “Don’t let that dick get to you.”

“Bit late.” Elton reached for the overfull glass of wine, carefully bringing it to his lips to avoid any spillage. “Also, impossible.”

“No, it isn’t. You said it yourself, he treats you like shit. Like shit _,_ man. And two weeks is no break, that’s not enough time for you to get some proper rest, that’s not good for you… He’s— Tell him to sling his hook.”

Elton finished his slug of wine, setting the glass down.

That was a recurring scene in his house. He couldn’t recall how many times that exact thing had gone down, then he’d grovelled to him, begging him to stay.

“Nah, I can take it,” he said quietly, revisiting his plate. “I can deal with it. I have been for, what, five— _six_ years?” He stuck another forkful into his mouth, now avoiding Bernie’s face. “We just have the odd fight. It’s fine. And this isn’t really a fight anyway, it’s just…”

_What was it?_

“Come on now, don’t make excuses for him.”

“I’m not. It wasn’t a fight, I wasn’t talking to him long enough for it to be a fight. Anyway, doesn’t matter now. It’s fine.”

“Except,” Bernie began, sticking out his fork. “It’s not really fine.” He paused for a moment, seeming to search for the right words. “You know, just because you can take it, doesn’t mean you have to. Or that you should. You’re strong, Elton, you are. You’ve already been through… a lot of shit. And I know I’ve said all of this a billion times, but this isn’t— It’s unfair. And I’m… sorry you didn’t get to have the break you hoped for.”

Bernie looked sad, like the emotion was swallowing him whole.

“No, don’t be,” Elton said. “I was throwing a fit when I said that. I’ve had a brilliant time, it wasn’t wasted at all. I just wish I didn’t have to go so soon.”

“You don’t have to put up with that. From anybody, but especially not from him. You _shouldn’t_ be working so much, you’re going to overdo it and burn yourself out. _He’ll_ burn you out.”

“Well, what else can I do, Bernie?” Elton asked, his voice accidentally sounding like he was really begging him for the answer. Bernie mightn’t have noticed—but he might have. He looked at him, cleared his throat, and tried again. “What else am I supposed to do? I can’t leave.” _For multiple reasons_. “He’s my manager, he’d just make things harder for me if I did. And he’s still going to be my manager for at least another seven years.”

Bernie thought for a few moments, probably trying to figure out a real, doable plan.

“I don’t know,” he eventually admitted. “You could— You still have to work with him, for now, but nothing says you have to live with him. Or be in a relationship. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, so, I don’t know… but you could come back here to stay when you need to, when you’re not working. Live here. Or— or I could come out to you. I could stay with you and him at your house, permanently, and I wouldn’t let him treat you like that.”

Elton almost laughed at the thought of Bernie Taupin trying to stand in the way of John Reid, a real life version of _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,_ when he was in one of his fits of rage.

“That’s not necessary.” Elton shook his head, shoving food through the slush of sauce, while his other hand remained a fist on the cutesy tablecloth. His brain kept resigning him to the reality of what he was doing—which was making himself even fatter. Every stomach-churning fork-load he was shovelling in. He chewed, swallowed, then cleared his throat again. “Seriously, Bernie, it’s fine. You don’t need to do that. You couldn’t anyway, you’ve got so much here to take care of. We’ll sort it. We always do. Things’ll reset, and we’ll be in love again.”

Bernie’s posture was deflated.

“Okay,” he said, then returned to his food.

As did Elton—eating another few forkfuls quickly, eyes shut, then chasing the food to his stomach with a couple of gulps of wine. He wanted to reassure him that he appreciated what he was saying. _He_ had no issue staying here, or with Bernie staying with him at their house permanently, in fact, he’d welcome that with open arms. But John would have more than a few things to say if he even mentioned it hypothetically. He wouldn’t allow any of that. Bernie’s girlfriend would likely find an issue or two with it, as well.

“He’s out most of the time anyway,” Elton said. “He’s not around much anymore, but when he is and starts pissing me off—it’s a big house—I can always go to a different room and barricade myself inside.” He laughed, only realising afterwards that what he’d said as an attempt at being light-hearted could be taken quite sinisterly by Bernie.

Bernie gave the most half-hearted exhale of a laugh and nothing else. Elton took another drink.

“I’m under absolutely no obligation to be around him twenty-four seven, Bernie. When things get—” He shuffled his hands in the air as a means to convey chaos. “I don’t have to put up with it, as you said, and I can call you, if you’re not busy… with your flock.” A laugh. “I’m fine. I’ll go home, we’ll do this album when you make it down, then, when I next get a chance for some free time, you and I can come right back here. Or, or, we can go anywhere else you like.”

Bernie smiled finally, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Both men smiled at each other for a moment longer, and continued eating. They didn’t say much else for the rest of the time, but again, it wasn’t awkward. There was _some_ sort of feeling hanging in the air, something else, that made Elton’s already-sick-feeling insides contort even more. Something he couldn’t fully distinguish. He hated conversations like that with Bernie. About John. He often wished that his whole life with John could evaporate; be gone and mean nothing, and that he and Bernie could live together, here—as friends. He knew he’d be much happier than he was now. But he also knew that would never happen. It couldn’t.

Elton couldn’t pinpoint the year, month, or moment that things hit the rocks with John, but the ship had since made its peace with it in the grand scheme of things, even set up an anchor there.

Currently, he hated him. With every fibre. But he knew he’d love him again. Just as much.

Elton cleared his plate and glass of wine completely.

Bernie knew of his qualms with eating. He hadn’t for a while, but eventually—perhaps naturally—he found out. Elton’s eating habits were a great cause for concern for him ever since he found out about the vomiting aspect of them; he didn’t understand when he’d told him that he was trying to stop himself from eating so much, or that he simply felt too full, and henceforth had none of it when Elton attempted to tell him he just wasn’t hungry.

Right now, all Elton could feel was the awful heaviness in his stomach, his bloated belly pressing uncomfortably against the dressing gown’s taut ribbon. He’d already subconsciously made peace with the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to vomit it back up from the moment he smelled it cooking. In fact, the moment he threw his bags onto the floor the day he arrived. He had made the unvoiced rule with himself to never do it at his house, no matter what, because he always had a way of finding out, one way or another. Either from the smell, spatters on something Elton didn’t notice and therefore didn’t clean, or just from the sneaking suspicion. He always found out. So, Elton had to deal with it, no matter how unbearable. Otherwise, it only caused unnecessary worry, stress, and a billion questions.

In Bernie’s mind, he was probably pretty sure he was on top of everything. Thought he knew _everything_. He was a sweetheart, but he bared hawk-like qualities. A tad overprotective, a bit of a surveillance camera. While his intentions were good, it still made a part of Elton preen knowing he had certain things, things at home, he didn’t know _all_ about.

Elton anxiously scratched at the side of his nose, watching his legs jittering up and down, his focus mainly on the fat on them jiggling around.

“How was it?” Bernie asked, lifting his plate.

“Oh, yeah. Really good.” Elton looked up out of his slight haze, both hands running up and down the sides of his legs as if attempting to steady them. “Thank you. Really appreciated it.”

Bernie smiled down at him, touched his shoulder gently. “I’m glad.”

Bernie swept around the table with both plates in hand, then ran them under the tap.

“It was pretty good, if I do say so myself,” he said, as he grabbed a sponge.

“Do you want me to help?”

“Not at all, man. Stay right where you are.”

“Yeah, but you made it.”

“So? Honestly, Elton, it’s fine.”

Elton gasped quietly. “What about your telephone?”

Bernie stopped mid-scrub. “What about it?”

“You’ll need a new one.”

“Nah, don’t worry.” He resumed cleaning. “I’ve got others. It’s no bother.”

“Yeah, but that one was important to you… It _is_ important to you. Your mum.”

“These things happen sometimes. I promise, it’s fine.”

“No.” Elton pulled his dressing gown over his chest, holding it together as he stood up, tucking the chair back below the table. “It’s my fault it’s broken. I’ll try to get it fixed for you, or buy you a new one. Something.”

“No, don’t worry.” Bernie looked back over his shoulder. “Seriously, man, it’s not that big of a deal. I wouldn’t want a replacement anyway, it’s not the same. Is that you going to bed?”

“Yeah.” Elton scratched through the back of his hair, guilt mixing with anxiety making his head feel light and his stomach contents keep on churning. “Tired. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Go right ahead. I’m gonna finish cleaning up here, then I’ll have to go out and take care of things out there, then I’ll probably be in soon after you.”

“Uhhh.” Elton shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I was maybe going to head into one of the guest rooms for the night… you know, I’m— I don’t wanna— I’d just like to sleep on my own tonight. If that’s okay… And you wouldn’t have to worry about coming to bed soon for the sake of not waking me later.”

“Are you sure?” Bernie asked warily, probably out of knowing how much Elton _liked_ to sleep next to him.

“Yeah. I just feel like sleeping on my own.”

“Of course.” Bernie set the plates into the strainer and turned around, his lower back leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to ask if it’s okay, you do whatever you want.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, then. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow… Goodnight, Reg.”

Elton breathed a genuine laugh. “Goodnight, Bernie. See you tomorrow.”

Elton headed up the swirl of stairs to the vacant second floor. He walked slowly down the unlit hallway, watching the vague blur of his bare feet as he tread.

He didn’t want to sleep by himself, but guilt made him feel like he had to.

He stopped wandering into the darkness at the last door on the left. He turned the doorknob and went inside. Able to make out the shape of the double bed in the dark, he threw himself onto it, feeling more weighted than usual, exhaling heavily as his face met the soft silk sheet. He didn’t want to bother with turning a light on. There was no point. He shifted up to the top of the bed, at least allowing himself the comfort and dignity of resting his head on the pillows. He just wanted to fall asleep.


	3. Should I Make My Way Out Of My Home In the Woods?

+

Sunday afternoon.

Elton woke up to the familiar soppiness of saliva soaking the pillow. He winced, rolling onto his back for a few seconds before sitting up and swiping the remaining dampness from his cheek. He slouched, scrubbing his fists into his eyes. He didn’t feel a great deal better from last night, in fact, much the same. The fact he’d be leaving at 6am didn’t launch him into the best of forms either. But he was grateful for the rest—and period of unconsciousness.

He stood up, stretching his limbs outwards before deciding to make the bed behind him. He owed Bernie that at the very least. Even though his groggy attempt wasn’t comparable to how Bernie would do it, Elton knew he’d appreciate the effort.

He picked up his glasses from where he could feel them pressed against his foot on the floor, ran his fingers around their frame to make sure they weren’t damaged, then put them on. He lifted the pillow and slid the pillowcase that he’d drooled all over off it, then thought it’d probably be best to bring the pillow itself down, so lifted that, too.

He didn’t have anything to change into in this room, all of his belongings were in Bernie’s room, so he didn’t put on a change of anything, slipping out the door without even giving himself a once-over in the mirror. He still felt like shit, so, obviously, he’d still look it, too. No need to get a reminder on top of the bloatedness still pitted in his stomach.

In the living room, Bernie was cleaning the windows. He was only wearing his underwear and a plain white t-shirt, meaning his labour clothes now resided in the washing machine. Having taken care of all of his morning ranch care duties, what he was doing now was something of a downtime activity to him.

Elton looked him up and down, his insides twinging with embarrassment from his brain automatically comparing Bernie’s legs and entire physique with his.

Bernie caught a glimpse of Elton in the polished glass and turned.

“Hey, Reg. Good morning. Or afternoon, rather. I’m, uh, just… doing a bit of cleaning. Obviously, this is the only way to do it.” He laughed, holding up the rag and bottle of cleaning spray, eyes trailing down to the pillow and its case in each of Elton’s hands. “What’re you doing with those? Need to wash ‘em?”

“Oh, yeah,” Elton remembered. “I drooled all over them last night. Don’t know why. Sorry.”

“Don’t be saying sorry for that.” Bernie set the things he was holding on the coffee table behind him. “You didn’t even need to bring them down, it’s no big deal. Here, give them to me.”

Bernie walked over and took them from him.

“I know, I just felt like I should.”

“I appreciate that,” Bernie said, going to throw the items into the washing machine, atop his own soiled articles. “I hope you slept well, at least.”

“I did,” Elton said, not completely lying. “What about you?”

“Oh, I slept great. Yeah.” Bernie switched the machine on. “Hey, I already had breakfast a while ago, but I can still make you something now, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” Elton replied coolly, scratching his neck. “I’m not really hungry… Don’t ever really feel like eating after just waking up.”

He wasn’t sure why he said that, because Bernie knew that wasn’t true, but it seemed to go under the radar pretty well. At least that was one meal out of the way.

“Sure,” Bernie said, going back to the windows. “Let me know when you are hungry though, and I’ll make you something then. Don’t be going all day without eating anything.”

Elton pressed a smile at him as a thank you he didn’t really mean. “Okay.”

“Sit down, make yourself comfortable. You don’t need to be standing around while I do this.” Bernie lifted the remote sitting on the coffee table and slung it onto the sofa, then picked up his cleaning gear. “Go on, I’ll join you once I’m done.”

Elton settled into the corner of the sofa and set one leg over the other, carefully draping his silk dressing gown around his body to cover it as much as possible, glancing at Bernie to make sure he wasn’t watching him do so. He watched Bernie do his housework for a few moments longer before picking up the remote, switching the television on, and flicking to a random channel to mindlessly watch.

Bernie strode over after he was finished, giving one of Elton’s legs that were now strewn across the length of the sofa a playful slap as he landed beside them. “Right, what’re we watching?”

“Eh, nothing, really.” Elton shifted his feet to the floor, moving over to give Bernie more space beside him. He handed Bernie the remote as he scooted closer.

“You didn’t have to stop _leisuring_ to make room for me,” Bernie said, taking the remote, beginning to skim through the channels. “I was just gonna lift your legs, set them over the top of me, like a rollercoaster barricade.”

And they would be a barricade, too. He wouldn’t be able to lift them off again.

Elton would have said it out loud, but sometimes the self-deprecating jokes were another thing that annoyed Bernie. He’d say, ‘ _Hey_ ,’—a trademark—‘you know I don’t like it when you talk like that.’ So Elton didn’t, and gave a laugh instead.

“Oh, shit.” He remembered Bernie’s phone, glancing to where he’d left its remains. They were no longer there.

“What is it?” Bernie asked, setting the remote aside.

“Your phone. I forgot to lift it.”

“I took care of it. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks,” Elton said, then sank further into the sofa with a sigh. “But I am really sorry, Bernie. I wasn’t thinking when I threw it like that.”

“I think it was broken long before you threw it.” Bernie mimed yanking it from the wall.

 _Yeah_. “I’m really sorry. You know that, don’t you? And you forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you.”

“I promise, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Actually,” Bernie said, sitting forward, dragging the chunk of yellow pages out from its shelf below the coffee table. “I was thinking about phoning up a repair shop, you know, with one of my other phones that still work—”

“Stop,” Elton groaned.

“I’m kidding. But seriously—I was thinking I could try to get it fixed instead.”

“Mm. Maybe.”

Elton was dubious. The state he’d left it in looked beyond repair.

“These people know about that sort of thing,” Bernie swore. “It’s bound to be possible. Look.”

He pointed at a squared advertisement that promised it could fix everything from radios and televisions, to telephones.

“I’ll give them a call right now,” he said, lifting the receiver of a phone on the table to his left, spinning the number in. “We’re getting connected,” he whispered, hand hushing the receiver. “Okay, I’m gonna be funny with this.”

That rarely meant anything great.

“Be funny with this? Oh, don’t. Don’t fuck around, Bernie _._ ”

“I’m not going to,” Bernie assured with a knowing smile. “I won’t say anything stupid. Let me just be funny.” Something seemed to happen on the line—he adjusted his posture. “Right,” he added. “I’m going to be you.”

“Oh, God. Don’t—”

“Hello! Yes, uh, hello. Elton here.”

 _“Don’t!”_ Elton pleaded through held-back laughter, grabbing onto Bernie’s arm. “Bernie. Please.”

“Why not?” Bernie mouthed, then returned to his character. “Yes, and your name is?”

“ _Bernie._ ”

“Well.” Bernie grinned, far too pleased with himself. “It’s nice to meet you, Kaveri.”

Elton’s shoulders sank, knowing he couldn’t stop him. “Oh, nice name…” he whispered.

Bernie shot him a look, agreeing.

“Tell him he has a nice name,” Elton said, and Bernie gave him another look, one that was surprised that he was seeing enough of the funny side to join in.

“That’s a really nice name,” Bernie continued. “Oh, you’re welcome. Yes— Oh, sorry, I’m all over the place. Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I was wanting to enquire about getting my telephone fixed,” Bernie swiftly carried on, stifling laughter. “Now, not the one I’m talking to you on currently—I’ve got many telephones, you see. I’m very fortunate, I’ve got a lot of money. The thing is, last night, my boyfriend—”

“ _Bernie._ ” Elton jolted his elbow at his ribs.

Bernie convulsed to defend himself, arm jerking down. But he continued: “My boyfriend, Bernie—”

 _“Bernie!”_ Elton snapped in another whisper.

He was joking. Obviously. He wasn’t Bernie’s _boyfriend_. Bernie had a girlfriend. Juniper. He was taking the piss out of him. He was, after all, aware of Elton’s _feelings_ for him. Maybe that was what he found funny in the first place.

It made the heaviness still in his stomach convert to a solid rock of uneasiness. Embarrassment.

Bernie suppressed another laugh, so Elton supposed he should feign one, too.

“Yes, well, last night,” Bernie said, then sighed dramatically. “Oh dear, well, he threw a bit of a tantrum, and ended up completely shattering my phone in a fit of rage.”

“Dear _God._ ”

“Yes, he pulled it straight out of the wall and threw it back against the wall, it’s completely destroyed. I’m so distraught, because the thing is, it’s something of a family heirloom. Yes. Yes, it was my mother’s. I just can’t _bear_ having to throw it out. I’d love to know if you think it’s fixable. Bernie said he’d pay for it, too, bless his heart, but I can’t allow that, of course. God.”

Elton pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Well, since he pulled it from the wall, the wire is quite damaged, yes… The actual phone itself is cracked, as well. All of the little parts inside are— Mm-hm. Yeah? Oh, well, that sounds great! I’ll bring it in tomorrow for you guys to have a look at it. Okay. Thank you ever so much. Thanks now, bye-bye.”

He clicked the phone back, grinning.

“Bye-bye,” Elton repeated in a high-pitched voice, then drummed his hands against Bernie’s arm. “What was that about?” Laughter overtook any seriousness he was trying to convey. “You made me sound like such a twat. Dick.”

“What?” Bernie shrugged, giggling like a schoolboy pretending he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. “I don’t see any problem.”

“The song lyrics?”

Bernie scoffed. “He’ll think nothing of it.”

“ _Elton and Bernie_ , Bernie? I think he’d have a damn good idea. He’ll think I’m insane.”

“Oh, he had no idea. He’s not gonna think it was actually one of us. If anything, he’d be thinking it’s someone who’s a big fan of yours… who’s also a little off his rocker.”

“That’s not really much better,” Elton said. “And what if the guy’s a raging homophobe? That will have pissed him right off. If I hear about this in the papers tomorrow, I’ll kill you.”

“If he’s like that, then who cares if it pissed him off? And it won’t be in the papers, Reg, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“If he is like that, he mightn’t want to fix your phone at all. Then what?”

“Hm. Didn’t think about that.”

“Are you really going to go there tomorrow?”

“I might,” Bernie said, cocking his chin upward. “No, I’ll probably get someone else to—just in case. Get Juniper to do it. But he did say they should be able to fix it, so… that’s good, at least.”

“That is good.” Elton lay back. Another laugh escaped him as he thought about what had just happened. He rolled his eyes, giving Bernie another, more friendly, jab in the ribs. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

They watched the television for a while, a couple of older episodes of _Steptoe and Son_ were on back-to-back. They had a few more yuks watching that before Elton heard and felt his stomach growling at him. He hadn’t noticed the ball of anxiety converting to a need for food. He ignored it. But Bernie, who may have been tone-deaf but still had the equivalent to a sonar sense of hearing, must have heard it too.

“You hungry now?” Bernie asked, sitting up from his relaxed posture. “You’re bound to be.”

“Uh. Suppose.”

“I’ll make you something,” Bernie said, sweet as always. He rested his hand on Elton’s leg. “Why don’t you go and take a ten minute shower, and I’ll have something waiting for you when you get out.”

“I need one that badly?” Elton said, referring to the shower, but the other part of his brain was thinking about the inevitable meal he was going to have to eat.

“No. I just thought it’d help you feel better. You know, refreshed. Have a shower or a bath, whichever you prefer. Brush your teeth. Shaving could be on the cards?” He laughed. “It’s up to you, though, obviously. You don’t have to do any of it if you’re not feelin’ it.” He tipped his head to one side, deciding, “You could also leave brushing your teeth ‘til after you eat. Might be a better idea.”

“Could you tell I hadn’t done that either?”

Bernie shook his head as his answer, a typical smirk on his face. “I just thought it’d be nice. Revitalise you a little. Then we can try to have a nice rest-of-the-day. Well, as nice as possible, all things considered.”

Elton bowed his head and thought about it, then nodded. All things considered.

“Okay.” Bernie smiled, patting his leg. “You go do that, and I’ll have something made for you coming back. Use whichever bathroom you like.”

Elton rolled his eyes, but smiled, getting up. “Alright, mother.”

Elton went to Bernie’s room, deciding to use the en suite there because he liked it best. Bernie’s bathroom wasn’t as cold and sterile as the ones in his own house. It felt warm and snug. Homey. It was tiny with a cream and gold striped rug lying in the centre of the floor, taking up most of the space. It looked and felt like it was made from Chenille. The tiles that lined both the floor and walls were a subdued yellow colour; milky, almost. Even the sink and bath itself matched. All of Bernie’s bottles of shampoos and colognes sat along the window sill with an array of brightly coloured windchimes and other handmade-looking decorations swaying above them, tinkling in the soft breeze that swept in from the clouded window’s small opening. He was the only person Elton knew who used empty birdcages for decoration. The window had little hand-done paintings in some of its squares, done by Juniper: roses, thistles, bluebells, birds, and in the centre, a butterfly with purple wings with yellow circles on them.

Elton began running a bath. He perched on the edge as he poured in a concoction of the soaps from the little basket that sat in the corner and swirled the water gently, turning the tap off when he thought it was full enough and a pleasing amount of bubbles had been brewed. He stood again to shed his dressing gown onto the floor and step out of his underwear.

He avoided looking into the mirror and removed his glasses to avoid any chances of seeing any sort of detailed glimpse of himself in anything else that would cause a reflection, setting them on the sink. He stepped into the tepid water, sitting down before reclining in an attempt to fabricate the relaxing, rejuvenating experience Bernie had spoken of.

It didn’t do that, exactly, but it did give him a while to zone out, which he was almost as happy to receive.

After, he slipped his dressing gown back on from its pile on the floor and went to his travel bag that he didn’t bother to unpack during his stay, that sat unmoved in the corner of Bernie’s room. Slipping on fresh underwear then resting his hands on his hips, now that he thought about it, bathing had made him feel better. Not in the deep, mentally-nourishing way he so craved, but at least he felt clean. Which he hadn’t, really, in the two weeks he’d been there. Or before that. And that felt like some sort of accomplishment, albeit a pathetic one.

He headed back to the bathroom to lift his glasses from the edge of the sink. Then, thinking of seeing John in less than twenty four hours, lifted his razor from its allocated area above the sink, deciding he should shave the dishevelled scruff from his face. He caught accidental sight of his reflection in the mirror and couldn’t look away, so tried to repress the negative reactions his brain made—overlapping choruses of _Jesus Christ, fucking disgusting,_ and _you look like shit,_ among other things that were being talked over so much by the rest of internal insults that he couldn’t fully distinguish each of them—by shutting his eyes. He pulled the curtains shut then reached behind to pull the cord he knew was hanging from the ceiling. A click, then darkness, filled the room. He could safely open his eyes again. He pushed his glasses onto the top of his head, out of the way, and splashed his face with cold water, taking a few pumps of Bernie’s shaving foam. He quickly shaved his face in the dark, using his fingers to inch around in front of the blade, determining where there was hair to shave. A skill he’d developed. When he felt he’d done as good a job as he could, he wiped his face, slid his glasses back on, and swiftly, nervously headed out to see what Bernie was going to make for him this time.

+

The smell of food cooking was thick in the air.

Bernie was standing at the oven, can of beer in one hand while the other rested on the counter. He turned around and grinned widely.

“Reggie! You took longer in there than I thought you’d be. You were in there for about forty minutes.”

“Forty? Huh. Thought it was about twenty.”

“Nah, man, it was longer than that.” Bernie took a drink and tipped his head at him. “You look good, anyway. What did I tell you?”

“Yeah. Thank you.” Elton trailed one of the chairs out, holding his dressing gown firmly together as he took a seat. “What’re we having this time?”

“Well, since you surpassed the expected ten minutes, I had a bit more time, so I thought I’d make us something _good,_ ” Bernie said enthusiastically.

“A connoisseur, are you?”

“Wouldn’t go that far, it’s definitely not gourmet.”

“Smells good, whatever it is.”

“I threw a load of vegetables in the tray, cooked them up with some chicken, added a couple of spices, and voila! We’ve got ourselves some chicken and vegetable fajitas.”

Elton rolled his eyes in something he could only describe as pure ecstasy. He hadn’t eaten all day, it was probably about 6 or 7 o’clock, and he was fucking starving. _Fuck it. Fuck, fuck, fuck it._

“Sounds good, doesn’t it?” Bernie said, equally as excited. He slid his oven mitts on and carried the sizzling tray over, setting it on the wooden block in the centre of the table.

“Fucking amazing,” Elton said, one of his hands pinching at his bare outer thigh below the table. Something of a subconscious, slightly nervous habit. It was also like his mind chastising him for what he was willfully allowing himself to give into.

Bernie followed the colossal tray of filling up with an equally as huge plate of steaming hot flour tortillas.

“That’s a lot of food,” Elton commented, eyes following the rising steam. “If you set all that down in front of me, I’m going to eat forty of these.”

“Then eat forty, I don’t care. It’s comfort food. Dig in.”

 _Comfort food_ was exactly what it was. And that was exactly the problem. It was the perfect kind of comfort food, the kind that Elton could devour tons of without considering how much was too much before it was too late.

Rhubarb and Custard emerged from the woodwork, both staring up with eyes lit with fixation. Mud, who knew better, remained where she was in the living room.

“Guys, you’ve already eaten. And you can’t have any of this anyway. And don’t you give them any,” Bernie instructed, pointing at the chirruping cats. “I know you would.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. I’m not a complete imbecile, you know.”

“That’s good. Their guts would explode.”

“They’d shit all over the place.”

“One way of putting it.” Bernie laughed, setting the plates down. The cats sang louder. “Guys, no. Get outta here. I’m serious. Scram.”

The two cats sauntered off, probably not because they were instructed to by a man who loved them so much he was barely authoritative, but from understanding they weren’t getting anything out of this.

Elton smiled to himself, at the fact Bernie used to be a man who claimed cats were an animal he could not stand until he happened upon two puny strays among his rhubarb plants—one white with a pink nose, the other completely the colour of a custard cream. They were respectively named. And they were huge now, both massively fluffy things. They also paid him a service by being a mouse-killing double-act.

Bernie pulled out his chair and Elton waited until he lifted a tortilla and filled it up before reaching to grab one of his own. Although he still retained his unshakeable habit of not eating first, Bernie was, and had been for the longest time, the only person Elton could eat around with almost zero inhibitions.

“Wonder how Joe’s getting on,” Elton said, “in…”

“Marrakech.”

“Yes. That’s such a sweet thing for you to do for them.”

“You know that’s the only reason I’m not coming with you tomorrow,” Bernie said once they’d both finished eating.

“Yes, Bernie.”

“I would come with you if I could.”

“I know. I understand.”

“And don’t worry, I won’t wait until Joe’s back to follow you. I’ll get someone temporary in the meantime.”

Elton pushed his plate aside, putting a hand to his overfull stomach below the table. He didn’t know how Bernie felt, but he felt gravely ill. It was his own fault for overdoing it. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind how long it takes.”

“Once I get something sorted, a few stand-ins to take care of things, I’ll be right down to you. I promise.”

“I know you will.”

Bernie raised his hand, presenting his palm. “We’ll make an album.”

Elton smiled, mashing his hand to his, then clasping it.

They listened to record after record afterwards, cosily slumped against each other on the sofa, sipping at cans of beer. They laughed and talked about everything and nothing all at once. It was sweet and relaxing, and Elton tried to make sure he savoured every last second of it. He wouldn’t be seeing him again for days, at least. Which, in Elton’s world, was forever. On top of that nagging thought, his mind also kept straying to the overloaded sensation that was bloating his stomach, while his gaze kept catching on the swollen slope below his overlapping hands. The sight added to his nauseousness. It was like a parasite. That he couldn’t get rid of.

After the evening came to a close, Bernie helped Elton get his stuff together from where it had scattered around the house, telling him that anything he’d inevitably leave behind, he’d bring to him the next time he saw him. It reached around 10:30pm when they decided that they—or, at least Elton—should head to bed, attempt to get at least a little sleep before having to travel.

Elton headed to Bernie’s room this time. This last chance. He untied his dressing gown’s ribbon from around his waist and took it off. Multiple stains of salsa sauce traced its front. He scrunched his nose in disgust before crumpling it into his bag.

He climbed into bed, setting his glasses on the bedside table and sinking deeply into the mattress, shuffling, attempting to shake the next wave of unease that was creeping over him. He pulled the sheets up tightly to his chin and closed his eyes. An hour or so later, he heard Bernie sneak into the unlit room and slide in beside him, whispering goodnight.

Elton continued to lie there, motionless, pretending to sleep, while his brain repeated the same phrase over, and over, and over.

_What did I ever do to deserve him?_


	4. The Need In Me Needs Nothing

+

Bernie’s alarm clock started screaming at 4:30am.

Elton opened his eyes, not fully knowing whether he had gotten any sleep or not. He blinked repeatedly, attempting to rid himself of the gritty feeling embedding his eyes. No use.

The bed sheets ruffled, and Bernie nudged his back. “Elton,” he said. “Are you up?”

Elton let out a resentful and drawn-out sigh as his response, forcing himself to sit up. He knew he couldn’t fuck around and bend John’s rules or there would be hell to pay. Worse than hell, possibly.

Bernie switched the lamp on, illuminating the room with a soft orange glow that Elton wished he could stay in.

Instead, he got up and headed to the en suite, brushing his teeth, scrubbing his face, attempting to make himself look presentable. He looked his haggard reflection in the eyes and decided any effort was fruitless. He came back out and carelessly slung his wet toothbrush into his bag. It was then that he realised he was walking around in nothing but his underwear.

“Don’t mind me,” he called back to Bernie, who was still sitting in bed. He went through his bag and pulled out a black and blue baseball shirt, draping it over his arm. He swapped his weight from one foot to the other, then dipped back down to find a specific pair of trousers. “Looking like a fat bastard over here.”

He said it as it came to mind, but after he said it and Bernie didn’t say anything back, he didn’t dare to look at him. He could imagine the look on his face and didn’t care to see it for real, so he played it off like it had meant nothing. He dragged a pair of black and blue pinstriped trousers out of his bag, crumpled having been shoved into the bottom the day he’d arrived and taken them off. They weren’t the silver ones he was looking for.

“These’ll do.”

He pulled the t-shirt over his head and arms, flattening out the wrinkles over his chest and the expanse of his middle. He, for just a moment, glanced to Bernie, who was watching on with an almost exact match to the expression Elton had pictured him having: eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth slightly parted. Elton quickly raised his eyebrows, flashing a curt smile his way before beginning to shove his legs into the trousers. After a few seconds of struggle, he managed to pull the zipper up and push the button through. He exhaled, at the same time letting his stomach fully pool against the waistband. It was mildly uncomfortable, but nothing he hadn’t put up with before. He could start buying things in a slightly bigger size, but that was a shame in and of itself, as well as a bad habit to start.

“Right, then,” he said, turning to lift his white faux fur coat hanging against the wardrobe. He put it on and did the buttons up, leaving a few at the top open. “At least need to look good for this cunt, don’t I?” He tossed his satchel backpack over his shoulder, then lifted the second, larger travel bag. “Let him see a little of what he was missing all this time.”

In reality, what he’d just done was more akin to what certain birds do to attract mates: fluffing up their feathers to appear better, more attractive than they really are. Or, perhaps even more similarly, to how you’re supposed to appear larger, more intimidating than you are, if you find yourself in a confrontation with an angry bear.

“Yeah.” Bernie spoke finally, walking over to stand opposite him. He reached for Elton’s coat, tenderly fixing its fluffy lapel from where it was sitting upturned. “Except, he won’t even appreciate that.”

Elton gave him another smile, slightly wry. “Maybe not,” he allowed. “But that’s all I can do.”

Bernie nodded a few times.

“Would you like a cup of coffee or something? Before you go?”

“No, thanks.” Elton shook his head, going to lift his silver platform boots from beside the door, stepping into them. “I’ll just… go and wait.”

“Sure.”

Elton slapped his old-fashioned dandy cap on his head, then they both sauntered towards the front entrance, Mud clip-clopping behind them. Elton threw his heavy bag to the floor again, sitting down on the little wooden bench there.

The only reason Bernie couldn’t come with him then and there was valid, understandable, but still annoying. But he didn’t hold it against him too hard, because it wasn’t his fault. His envy and resentment for Joe had died, too. John was the problem.

They sat in silence, looking out at the grey complexion of the morning through the criss-cross pattern on the window on Bernie’s door.

Bernie leaned against a stone pillar, arms folded over his chest. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Hm?” Elton looked up at him, temporarily acting like he had no idea what he was referring to. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“I’ll come by really soon. By next week, I’ll be there. And we’ll start working.”

Elton nodded, and they both waited in silence once more, the only occasional sound being that of Elton’s shoes rubbing on the stone floor, the rustling of his coat, Mud’s tail paddling, or the faint sound of the birds’ lively chatter outside.

Eventually, there were tires trekking over the gravel path, and they both perked up, dull headlights shining through the glass onto them. Elton sprang to his feet, grabbing his bag and adjusting the one on his back just as the driver honked the car’s horn.

“Alright,” Elton said softly, clearing his throat. He wanted to hug him, but didn’t want to be the one to initiate it. Not sure why. “Well. See you next week.”

“Yeah, man. Next week.”

They paused for a moment, just looking at each other. Bernie stepped forward, clamping his arms around him, squeezing him tight and exhaling past his ear.

Elton hugged him back with his non-occupied hand, wishing he didn’t have to let go, taking in the scent of him one more time—sweet yet unobtrusive cologne that smelled of elderflower, and another that was just Bernie, comparable to nothing else. It was as if he was never going to see him again. That was what it felt like.

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Bernie gave his back a couple of firm pats before letting go. “Next week. No later. Promise. You’ll be fine… once you get there.”

Elton smiled at him weakly, then unlocked the door. He turned back to wave at him once he got to the bottom of the steps, and Bernie waved back.

The scrawny driver, Pete, who had worked for Elton for years, popped out of the other side of the Rolls-Royce, hurrying around to take his bag from him and pack it into the boot of the car.

He offered to take his backpack, but Elton shook his hand refusing, then pulled the car door open before Pete could attempt to, leaving him to scurry around to the driver’s door again, flinging himself inside.

The repaired fence looked good. The new patch of wire was barely distinguishable from the rest, only slightly shinier. Elton almost had to force himself to stop staring at it to slump into the backseat with a thud. Shutting the door, he looked out the window at it one more time, then at his best friend who was still standing at the door. They both continued to wave.

The partition slid open. “Did you have a nice break, sir?”

“Yeah,” Elton replied, still looking longingly at Bernie, still waving. “Yeah. It was really good.”

+

After about a two hour drive, where Elton dozed on and off for most of it, peered out the window at the little streets and rolling hills, not saying a word for the rest, they arrived back in Berkshire. The more the scenery changed, dirt roads became paved, the further he got from Bernie. The car pulled up to the large gates of his own house and Pete rolled down the window, stuck his head out, and spoke into the intercom on the wall.

“Elton’s back, sir,” he said.

There was no audible response from the other side, but the gates cranked open, prying themselves apart. The car rolled up the path and pulled into the driveway, and the feeling of dread swished with the motion of the car in the pit of Elton’s clenched stomach.

When the car came to a halt, he clambered out and stepped around to the boot. Pete scampered out behind him and came to lift it up, gathering his bag for him and handing it over with a smile.

“There you are, sir.”

“Thank you very much,” Elton said, taking it from him, then habitually adjusting the satchel on his shoulder. He braced himself a little before taking the couple of steps to the front door, mentally berating himself for forgetting to bring a house key with him.

He loved the place. He loved the area. He loved all of the things he owned. It was a massive house, something he could only have dreamed of as a child. The driveway was lined with opulent ceramics, and the interior of the house was sleek and clean; crisp and smooth; mostly white, apart from the miscellaneous scatterings of rock and roll memorabilia that plastered the walls and filled his closets to the brim. The kitchen, which Elton privately considered the heart of the house because of its similarity to Bernie’s decorative style, was a lot more homespun. Most of the furniture and decoration in the rest of the house was rococo, an antique, exquisite architecture and art style from the 18th century that Elton had fallen in love with one time in France, and then collected over the years like the natural-born magpie that he was. It was his own house, he paid for it and everything in it, yet it didn’t have the appeal, nor the charm, of _home_ for some reason _._

Elton reached out to press the doorbell, but just as the tip of his finger met the button, before even being able to push it, the door hatched open. It made him jump a little.

“Hello, _darling!”_ John greeted him, sounding slightly condescending in his use of the word ‘darling,’ but that was just how he was these days. It often made Elton wonder if he’d ever meant it when he called him anything sweet.

“How are you?” Elton asked, trying to replicate being on the same level as he was, striding inside and clunking his larger bag to the floor. He wanted a hug, or something, but didn’t expect one.

Helena and Georgia, two of the housekeepers, were busying themselves down the hall, in the living room, only looking up to pass a welcoming smile.

“Fine,” John lilted in his strong, _almost_ -Glaswegian accent. He reached past Elton to slam the door shut. “What about you?” He dropped his gaze downward then back up, swishing a finger through the side of his thick, jet-black hair. “Did you have a nice time, then, getting fat with your boyfriend?”

Elton took a moment to process what he’d said, hands falling slack at his sides. He stood there, somewhat stunned, trying to think of a snappy response, but absolutely nothing came to mind.

“Fat?” he instead muttered meekly.

“Do you expect me not to notice?” John reached down to tug the end of Elton’s coat. “You always get fat when you’re with him, darling, it’s okay. You were headed in that direction before you left, he’s just egged you on with all those pastries he shoves down your neck, hasn’t he? But don’t worry about it, I actually don’t mind. Suits you. And how could I expect anything less? What, with you not able to snort cocaine all night, you were bound to put some weight back on. Your boyfriend Bernie doesn’t let you do drugs there.” His voice was sing-songy and annoying. Then he pouted. “So, all you can do is eat, pet. I understand.”

“Bernie doesn’t stop me from doing anything there.” Elton pulled the edge of his coat back. “And what are you talking about, John? Bernie’s not my boyfriend. _You’re_ supposed to be.”

John raised his eyebrows. “And am I not? You need to learn to understand a joke when you hear one, pet, you’re not very good at it. Take the coat off, you look ridiculous. It’s the middle of June.”

The housekeepers loitering in the living room had made themselves scarce.

Elton silently seethed as he watched John turn to walk down the hallway. His feelings and emotions were live wires: receptive like nerve endings exposed. John had the remote and full access to all of the buttons, full knowledge of how to push every single one of them. Elton had never been able to take his jokes, nor anyone’s for that matter, regardless of how they were packaged.

“Come on, then.” John jerked his head. “Let’s sit down. Tell me everything exciting.”

Elton huffed out a breath and followed at his heels briskly.

“Bernie doesn’t stop me from doing drugs at his house,” he snapped at the back of his head, the initial boldness he started with depleting when John suddenly stopped and turned to face him.

“Then why don’t you do them?” quizzed John. “There’s a crate-load of pills up there. Pretty sure there’s some cocaine stashed away as well, knowing you. Why’d you not take some with you? Have a party at the farmhouse.”

“Because,” Elton began, put on the spot. “I just don’t want to. When I’m there.”

Drugs had crossed his mind, sure, but had slipped out just as quick. Bernie had never dictated what he could and couldn’t do there. He wouldn’t.

John tsked a laugh, looking around as if what he’d just said was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard and he wanted someone else’s validation that it was.

“But you… are an addict, Elton.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Am I wrong? You’re addicted to almost everything. Food included.”

Elton growled, forcibly ignoring the last part. “Yes, you are fucking wrong. Ask Bernie.”

John rolled his eyes heavily, as if it pained him to do so. “Of course _he’d_ lie for you. So, what, you’re telling me, when you’re there, your _need_ for _speed_ gets replaced by your immense respect and desire to live _rusticly_ in nature, does it?”

“Actually, it does. Piss off.”

“What? Do you want a list of everything you’re addicted to? I might not be able to rattle them all off the top of my head, but I could maybe have it finished by, let’s say, tomorrow? To be safe.”

“Fucking _ask_ Bernie. If I was a fucking addict, you bastard, he’d know. I’d be writhing on his fucking bedroom floor.”

“Ohh, you were staying in his bedroom?”

Elton huffed air out through his nose. _Wrong choice of words_. _Wrong, wrong, wrong—_ “But I wasn’t, was I?” he continued. “I was fine. I was better than fine, actually, I was—”

“How do I know that?”

“Because I’m telling you. I was _fine._ Drugs were the last thing on my mind, because I don’t fucking need drugs, I’m not addicted. In fact, I could stop any time. I only take them when I fucking want to, I never _need_ to, and if that makes me a junkie, then what does that make half the people in this business? What does that make you? You’ve got some fucking nerve. You take drugs just as much as me, John.”

John raised one corner of his mouth into his cheek. Leaving that as his response, he turned his back and went to sit down on the red settee that sat in the centre of the floor.

“Don’t call me an addict, John.” Elton followed, standing across from him, frothing over, fists curling up and releasing. “You didn’t even answer what I said, which proves you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t answer you,” John said slowly, “because I don’t need to. The way you’re getting on right now proves _my_ point. Why would you get so mad, so _defensive_ , Elton, if it weren’t true?”

Elton shook his fists, letting the anger inside of him fill him up, overflowing out of the top of his head like a school science experiment cascading down over his features. He let go of a breath, attempting to speak calmly again as he said, “You fill me with complete and utter rage. Complete and utter fucking rage, John. Do you know that?” He accidentally spat the last part. He collected himself again. “Of course you know that. And of course I’m going to get mad, because you’re accusing me of being something I’m not.” He stared at John’s imperious face for a few brief seconds before thrusting his hat down onto the floor as another flame of frustration engulfed him. “You’re so full of shit!”

He kicked his shoes off, letting them fly across the floor in opposite directions, and made way for the stairs.

“Don’t start. You’re only back, darling,” John called after him. “Come back here. Please. We need to talk.”

Elton stopped dead in his tracks, turned on his heel, and bustled towards him again like a freight train.

“You’re fucking right we do.” He stood directly in front of him, chest rising and falling rapidly below his giant coat. “Come on, then. What is it?”

“Sit.” John smiled up at him disarmingly, patting the empty space to his left.

Elton plunged to the seat, and John extended his arm around his shoulders, shifting closer. He put his other hand to Elton’s cheek.

Elton sighed through his nose, hard expression dissolving as he melted to John’s hand. He hadn’t really come to terms with just how much he’d yearned, practically ached, to be touched intimately like that.

“I really missed you,” Elton breathed.

“What was that?”

“Missed you.”

“I know you did,” John said, planting a chaste kiss on his lips before pulling his body away from his, leaving Elton hanging in the dreamy cloud that he’d set him on. “Right. Let’s talk about the issues at hand, then, hm?”

“Issues?” Elton cocked his head to the side, shuffling closer. “What issues are you talking about?”

“We’ve got an album that needs to be released in three weeks. That’s three weeks to write the songs, perfect them, record them, and release the fucking thing. That’s just twenty one days. That isn’t very long.”

“Three weeks?” Elton repeated, his mind trailing back over the two he’d got to spend on a break. He hadn’t thought he’d cut it that short.

“Yes, three,” John said. “You knew this. I told you, if you take the couple of weeks off, you were making it harder for yourself. You, as per usual, didn’t listen. That’s why I went ahead and took the liberty of cutting your holiday a few days short. Which you threw a strop about, but hopefully now you understand and are prepared to thank me for it.”

He wasn’t prepared at all.

“We can do it,” he told him. “When Bernie arrives, we can crank out a couple of songs—he said he’d written a few things…” Bernie hadn’t said that at all. He was just trying to come across as being two steps ahead. “Then we can put them together, and we’ll call it an album.”

“It needs to be good. You can’t go putting any old shit out there and slapping your name on it. Did you both work on anything while you were there?”

“No…” Elton admitted. “But it will be good. It will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

+

Elton lay in bed on his own, staring at the streaks that the fluorescent garden lights cast on the ceiling through the blinds, knowing it could be several hours before he slept, despite being tired. He hadn’t eaten anything since arriving back. He was hungry, but hadn’t felt like going to make himself anything. And he didn’t feel like having to confront John to do so anyway. All of the housekeepers, and therefore the cook, would be gone by now, too. It was best to leave eating for today. It was. The start of making up for the last two weeks.

After some time, John came into the room. He slinked under the sheets next to him, but lay facing the other way. John opting to sleep with him, without being asked to, had become a rare occurrence. Practically non-existent at this point. Although he was lying with his back towards him, maybe the fact that he was there at all meant that he’d missed him, too.

Elton looked at his silhouette through the darkness, without even the aid of his glasses. He wondered if he should say something, anything. Try to talk to him, like they used to be able to do. When things weren’t like this. The thought that it might only annoy him—he mightn’t be in the mood to talk, he could be really tired—crossed his mind too, but he began inching towards him anyway, tentatively placing a hand onto his upper arm when he couldn’t move much closer.

“John.” Elton spoke faintly, then paused for some kind of sign that he was awake. He was the kind of person who could fall asleep almost as soon as his head met the pillow. An envied quality. “John… can we kiss?”

Nothing.

“Can we kiss?”

It wasn’t what he’d planned on saying, because he hadn’t planned anything. It was just what came out.

“Can we—”

John stirred, shifting onto his back, arm resting across his forehead.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, but he sounded amused.

He started to roll onto his side, and Elton backed up a few inches, allowing him more space. “ _Can we kiss,_ ” John said in a mimicking tone, now lying face-to-face with him. 

“Well… can we?”

John drew a breath and let it go again as a laugh.

“Please,” Elton said.

“You’re needy as _hell_ , aren’t you?”

Elton attempted to make out the vague splotches in front of him, figure out the expression on the other man’s face. He hummed a response. He supposed he was.

John ran his hand down Elton’s arm, producing a cool line of goosebumps, stopping at his wrist to hold it. He kissed him softly and slowly, a smile evident on his lips.

“How long have you been wanting this?” He glided his hand back along Elton’s arm, then ran his palm across his shoulder and down the front of his chest. “How long have you been needing me?”

“So long.” Elton inhaled deep, shaky. “Too long. The entire time.”

John traced his hand along Elton’s middle, eventually clamping on his soft waist as he kissed him again, with more energy this time, more passion. Elton grasped at him sparingly, kissing, the electricity in his brain zapping through every last thought. His ankles swivelled and twisted, legs jerked and seized, like he hadn’t been touched by another person in a million years. To be touched, be held, to feel wanted by him was everything. He had a desire to be desired. When he got it, nothing else mattered.

They kissed for what felt like hours, Elton’s mouth feeling exhausted and raw, though that didn’t deter him. The pain was almost the whole point, it was the goal. It was a physical reminder, or token, that could keep the sparks in his mind alight.

“Is there anything else you wanted?” John asked, already sticking his fingers down between Elton’s underwear and hot skin, letting the waistband slap back against his hip.

Elton, already in an overwhelmed daze, simply nodded, assuming John could see him in the pitch black.

John must have understood, because he peeled Elton’s underwear back and worked them down his thighs. Elton sat up a little, assisting him in sliding them down his legs, and John kissed him as he crept over him, slotting between them. Elton reached out to grasp at the hem of John’s underwear, but John pushed his hand away.

“I can do that,” he said, pinching at the waistband.

Elton lay back again, watching John’s shadow inch his own underwear off.

John slicked himself up then repositioned his hands at either side of him. Elton shut his eyes and kissed him back. As he entered him, he gasped lightly, drifting his hands over the taut muscles between John’s neck and shoulders. His toes curled and uncurled, legs slowly straightened and unstraightened. Hands swept into the backs of his knees, pushing them further. As John picked up his pace, Elton clenched his thick arms, messily and hungrily kissing his chest and neck, pressing his body against his, skin-on-skin not being close enough.

“I missed you.”

“I know,” John grunted.

“I missed you,” Elton uttered again, desperately.

“I know you did.”

“No.” He shook his head against the pillow, fingers dipping further into John’s muscle. “I missed you.”

“I know.”

It was all he could say.

I missed you, I missed you, I missed you.

I know, I know, I know.

John, after successfully pleasuring himself, planted another kiss onto Elton’s face, almost entirely missing his mouth, and slumped back into his position beside him like he’d been thrown off a horse.

Elton remained frozen, hands resting fastened together on his chest, able to feel his heartbeat that was still pounding inside but steadily rectifying itself in the quite literal anticlimax. It wasn’t the first time John had pleased himself and not bothered to do the same for him. In any sense. And since the moment had passed, it was done, he didn’t bother to bring it up.

John slapped a hand on top of his, gently brushing his skin with the pad of his thumb.

Elton breathed heavily for a while, staring blindly, John’s hand growing irritating. He slipped a hand out from below his to dip it under the covers to satisfy himself. He definitely wouldn’t have been able to sleep otherwise.


	5. Out-buck the Broncos In the Rodeo

+

It was Wednesday night.

Elton had been back at his house for a couple of days now, meaning exactly two weeks and five days left for a whole album. It was intimidating, and he was still pissed about his break being cut short, but it was starting to become real, imminent, like a leopard readying to pounce, and he was starting to come to terms with being mauled. Well, maybe the reality of the situation wasn’t _that_ drastic, but it felt so in the moment. He had to knuckle-down and get started.

‘Business as usual,’ John would say.

He would get to see Bernie again. That was the main thing. They’d talked on the phone a few times since he left, not about work, about how things were going for each of them. Bernie had gotten a few ranch hands sorted, finally, and said he’d be down shortly. He also said he’d written a few things. Elton, in return, admitted he hadn’t been up to much and Bernie assured him there was no harm in that. ‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ he’d said, always trying to see the brighter side of things. Elton begged to differ, but didn’t say so. He’d been trying to force himself to sit down at the piano, at least attempt to tinker around on it since he didn’t have any lyrics on hand to work with, but it wasn’t happening. He couldn’t even look at the thing. Oh, God. He didn’t say anything to Bernie about John either. It was unnecessary. Briefly taking his mind off things each evening, he and Bernie had had virtual album listening parties, taking it in turns to play different albums to one another down the phone for a couple of hours. The thought that he was going to _see_ Bernie again soon propelled each moment forward, and made the last one worth it. And he hoped his swearing of plenty of time was really worth something.

John entered the living room, suited up as he was most days, with that same ever-lasting smirk on his face.

“Do you want to go out?”

“Where to?” Elton asked, looking at the mug of now-cold coffee sitting on the table. He’d already asked the question before he really had time to consider what ‘going out’ entailed. He would’ve loved a drink, but he’d have been happy enough to knock back a few from the comfort of the sofa he was sitting on. He gave a sigh and added, “I don’t know if I’m really in the mood.”

“Of course you are,” John said, dropping down next to him. He wrapped an arm around Elton’s shoulders and squeezed, his other hand’s fingertips grazing over his chest. “You will be. Look, I asked a couple of people if they wanted to get together, for you.” His face drew closer to Elton’s cheek, voice a purr. “And they’ve all said yes. We can’t leave them waiting. Let’s have some fun before things get too serious again, hm? Ease you back into the swing of things since your break got cut so short. How about that?”

Elton looked at him with new intrigue while John’s finger traced his jaw. His brain scrambled to remember the last time John had planned anything especially for him.

“Where?” he asked.

“Quicksand.” John’s warm mouth brushed against his ear. “Plus, I got you something.”

Elton pulled back to look him in his deep brown eyes. “Got me something?”

John nodded. “But you have to come to get it.”

He hadn’t said anything along those lines a few nights ago.

Elton smiled, eyebrows animatedly quirking upward. “Okay. I’ll come.”

John planted a sweet kiss on his cheek, and, now encapsulated by his persuasive and potent charm potion, Elton floated to his feet, cheerily going about his way to get himself appropriately dressed for the occasion his man had planned for him.

“Be ready in twenty minutes, darling.”

Elton didn’t give a response, but supposed he could make it back down in that time if he rushed. He ran up the stairs, giggling to himself like a child being told to get to bed before Santa Claus came.

Once in his bedroom, he removed the plain t-shirt and shorts he’d had on, swapping them out for a black shirt laden with multi-coloured, sparkling jewels in ringed patterns down the front and forearms, the same array of jewels covering the collar; and a pair of flared trousers, a deep gold, with similar brilliant, vivid jewels adorning the flares. He swapped out his regular glasses for a pair of large-framed red ones, a dark tint in their lens. Had to keep up the brand.

He looked at himself in the mirror, cocked his hip and rested a hand on his waist, sternly inspecting his reflection. He eventually came to the conclusion that he looked fine. Not great, by any means. But he looked as good as he possibly could. And that was the best outcome he could hope for, any day. He spritzed himself with some of John’s cologne that was sitting closer-at-hand than his own, gently brushed his hands over his hair, and slid a couple of large rings off their stand and onto almost all of his fingers. He went to the shoe section of his walk-in closet, grabbed a pair of red platform shoes that caught his eye, and slipped them on before excitedly making his way back downstairs to present himself to John.

He clicked down the marbled stairs and stopped at the base, adorning a hands-on-waist, chest-out pose, and closed-mouth grin.

John’s face lit up, beaming back. “Oh.” He clapped his hands together. “You look beautiful. Stunning, Elton.”

“Why, thank you,” Elton said, swaggering with his newly-refurbished faux confidence seeping deep into his core. He briefly rested his teeth on his lower lip. “So, Quicksand, you say?”

“Your favourite. The staff know you’re coming too, so expect roses at your feet, darling,” John said, as a flare of headlights breached through the front door’s frosted window. He pointed towards it, extending his spare hand to Elton. “That’ll be our lift letting us know he’s good to go. Come on.”

Elton bashfully held his own hand out, waiting for John to take it to make sure that was what he was wanting. It seemed obvious, but he always liked to be sure about things like that. Save himself any embarrassment.

When John clasped his hand to his, Elton almost squeaked. John rarely ever wanted to hold hands. It felt special. Maybe that was why he didn’t do it that often. Maybe it meant more if it didn’t happen all the time.

Heat rushed to his cheeks. So, as well as from pure schoolgirl-like excitement, he rushed the couple of them outside, where his flushedness would be less noticeable.

+

Quicksand was a relatively poky nightclub on the outskirts of London that had a rooftop bar. The plot itself was spacious, but the club was full of narrow, winding hallways and a lot of rooms, and those rooms were quite small and could grow overcrowded quickly. It had more burrows than a rabbits’ warren. They often joked that it should be called Maze or something similar because of it. But that was part of its charm. It was very bijou. It was a regular hang-out place, known for its high admission fee, list of elite revellers, and its seemingly classy appearance to outsiders looking in, though those in the know knew that it was _famed_ for its complete and utter sleaze and blatant endorsement of debauchery.

The Rolls-Royce pulled up to the front of the club, the seats outside already crawling with people. The glowing word ‘Quicksand’ emblazoned overhead in cursive script, Q tail underlining the rest of the word, lit the street below it with a murky green light.

John and Elton stepped out and made their way to the doors. A few random people, and a few familiar but nameless faces, offered loud greetings.

They exchanged their pleasantries before going inside to the unlit foyer. Nobody was by the frontdesk, not that that mattered. They started on the flights of stairs, pausing after the third set, allowing Elton a moment to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ.” He bowed over, hands resting on his knees. He pushed his glasses up his nose and returned upright. “Should have taken the fucking lift.”

“Come on.” John motioned with a jerk of his head, starting on the next flight. “It’s good for you.”

Elton winced, bounding up the steps after his boyfriend who was now a good bit ahead of him and briskly making his way onto the next set.

“How many more?” Elton stopped again, resting a hand on his pounding chest.

“Three for me,” John said, glancing down at him between the railings with a simper. “Four for you. Shake a leg.”

“ _Oh, fuck,_ ” Elton cursed below his limited breath, forcing himself up what seemed like another three hundred steps before he finally reached the top.

They weaved their way through the dim hallways, the green and white spotlights overhead guiding them. The different songs leaking from each lounge they passed were blending in the smokey air, and it was disorientating. Plastic potted plants hung from the ceiling by fraying strands of rope of varying lengths, others were perched along the walls in their own concave spheres, the spaces between each adorned with abstract green and white paintings on canvas. Elton hadn’t been to Quicksand in ages. It seemed like forever. A whole lifetime ago. The feeling all of it was brewing in the pit of his stomach was both exhilarating and daunting. The latter, he wasn’t sure why. The strong mix of feelings was reminiscent of that of a strange acid trip. ‘Strange,’ really, being an apt description of any acid trip, as far as he knew.

When they reached the place they were meant for, John pulled open the circular wooden doors, and they walked out onto the rooftop. Elton, watching his shoes as they moved, suddenly noticed and remembered why the place was called what it was. The stone that paved the rooftop looked like sand, and the pattern it made orbited around the bar, which must have been done purposefully. It was smart. Fitting.

As they made their way towards the hectic bar, Elton took the time to scan the area around him. The only form of light was from the candles that sat in the middle of every glass table, the tiny lights that were strung around the flower and foliage-embellished panels and in netting overhead, and the moon and stars in the sky. The people in their seats below grinned back at him, some faces he knew, others he was sure he knew. The black cladding that shielded them from opposing buildings had large, real plants in them. In fact, all of the plants up there seemed to be real. It reminded him of Bernie for a mere second, then his brain stabbed at him with a spear coated in guilt, making him wonder if Bernie was calling him right now. The phone ringing and ringing in his mansion. His friend wondering what was more important than their now-routine music calls. Then people waving them over from the corner caught his attention.

They were sitting furthest away from the fellow who was parked on a stool with a shabby-looking guitar, making his way through an array of covers and seemingly made-up riffs and ad-libs. He was currently ‘singing’ an ‘extended’ version of Johnny Cash’s ‘Folsom Prison Blues.’

They hurried over to the alcohol-buried table, and now Elton was able to distinguish who some of them were. There were six of them. They were all John’s friends.

Sam Barnes, George Preston, and a few others. There were two characters who he didn’t recognise at all sitting on the edge. An older man in shades, possibly in his late forties or early fifties, smoking a cigarette, with a tall, slender guy, who appeared to be much younger glued to his hip, almost on top of him, with his hand snaked around the other man’s leg, the other occupied with a cigarette pinned to a holder.

You wouldn’t get away with that in one of the pubs down the road. Or even on the road itself. Quicksand wasn’t an exclusively gay club, but it was one of the few places that had zero issue.

The younger guy had a full head of bleach-blonde hair severely parted down the centre, and his features were chiseled, his face was long, making him almost birdlike. He had a light pink feather boa draped lazily over his shoulders, and fingernails painted a deep red, matching the rouge of his lips. He could have been wearing lipstick, but it was hard to tell in this light.

Elton picked through his brain, trying to recall if he had ever met him before, or even had some passing encounter, because the sour look on his face was almost definitely trying to convey a profound hatred or bitterness. God, what could it have been? Must have been _bad_. Those two didn’t say anything, the older only lending a nod while they all exchanged their hellos and ‘ _nice to see you again_ ’s. And then came a thrilled, ‘wasn’t expecting to see you here, too,’ from a young Southern-American lady whose name had totally slipped his mind.

“Oh, no?”

“No!” she laughed. "Last I heard about you, you were off in some farm somewhere!”

The stale smell of tobacco clinging to the air was almost nauseating, but Elton tried not to show it nor the sour realisation that this was not an event centred around him at all on his face. Smoking cigarettes wasn’t something he had ever meaningfully dabbled in. He’d tried it, twice, and found it wasn’t a habit he desired to pick up, so he never did. He _had_ that control. He did. And he almost wanted to announce this fact to John, but he refrained.

He sat down next to a petite and pretty Bohemian-type girl, who the only real things that he could recall about her were that her name was Julianna, and that she didn’t eat meat. In the past, he could have sworn his memory was ten times better than what it was proving to be tonight. Perhaps it was proof of the fact that he hardly knew these people. Still, he was sure he shouldn’t have been feeling like he was sitting among six complete strangers.

He looked at Julianna again, studiously this time, as if that was somehow going to jog his memory and disperse a load of talking-point facts about her. A brown scarf was wrapped around her neck, a delicate gold necklace hanging below it. Slim, rectangular glasses sat upon her upturned nose, subdued freckles decorated her pale cheeks, and her fair hair was cut into a blunt bob, the bangs lying feathery on her forehead and framing her face. When she smiled, her prominent teeth rested on her lower lip. She noticed him looking and smiled at him sweetly, sipping at the pink drink in her glass through a straw.

“You sit here,” John instructed into Elton’s ear. “I’ll go get us something to drink.”

Elton smiled back at Julianna.

“Oh, thank you, I’d love something to drink, John,” he replied to him privately, then slammed both of his hands on the table repeatedly. Cracking a laugh from almost everybody sitting around him, he kept going, and chanted: “I’d _love_ a fucking drink, John. A _real_ fucking drink. Go forth! Get me a real fucking drink! Now, now, now!”

John simply smiled, turning and making his way to the bar.

“So,” Sam began—a friend of John’s he knew from the music business. He produced or something. He was African American, though seemed to be obsessed with the British ‘Teddy Boy’ subculture from 20 years ago. He always had his hair slicked up tall, and his wardrobe, like John, must have consisted 90% of suits. He was wearing a striking blue one, complete with a sapphire ribbon-thin tie around his neck. His elbows were patched with fabric of a darker blue, one of which he leaned on the table as he lurched forward, slinging a bottle of cider towards Elton at the same time. “Elton, where’ve you been, man? Setups like these just aren’t the same without you. Last time, Reid was saying you were giving yourself a break.”

“I was.” Elton graciously accepted the bottle, then chugged a few gulps of it down. “Thank you,” he added. “I was— I was taking a couple of weeks, you know, to relax. At Bernie’s, actually. Bernie Taupin?”

“Yeah, man. I know old Taupy.”

Elton nodded once. “Right.”

“I mean, I’ve met him a _couple_ of times. Nice dude.”

“Yeah. He’s… he is fabulous. As I’m sure you know. Well, that was the, uh, aforementioned farm.”

“I heard he’s got himself a nice place up there.”

“Oh, he does. It was nice to have a bit of a break, you know, time to yourself.”

“I hear you,” Sam said, acquiring a new glass from somewhere and raising it. They clinked their drinks together. “You deserve that, man. You deserve that a whole lot more than you get.”

“Thank you,” Elton said, setting his drink down, head tilting as he took Sam’s hand into his, patting it enough times to stress how much he deeply appreciated what he’d said. “Seriously.”

“I mean it,” Sam said, pointing a finger to punctuate. “You gotta make sure he’s not making you do overtime, do you hear? That’s one of his nasty habits. Don’t let him. You should be taking _way_ more breaks.”

Elton pulled a smile like a hand puppet, nodding along, hoping John was too caught up in a conversation of his own to be overhearing.

“What do you mean by that, though?” George, a bold and portly gentleman with a greasy quiff haircut and a slightly grating voice—another somewhat mutual friend from the technical side of the industry, jutted in. “A break from touring and making music,”—he paused to guffaw—”or from the booze and drugs?”

The table launched into another flutter of laughter.

Elton wasn’t sure what response to give, so lifted the cider bottle and returned his attention to Sam.

“Can I have more of this?”

“Take it all,” Sam said. “It’s yours.”

Elton flashed a smile, then necked the rest of what was left in a few hearty swigs.

“Where is Bernie?”

“Bernie?”

“Mm-hm. Usually it’s a case of if you’re there, he is—and if he’s there, there you are, too. Still at home?”

“Bernie’s still at his house,” Elton said a little dejectedly, and Sam pouted. Elton swallowed. “Yeah. He’s coming down here soon, though. We’re working on a new album.”

Sam nodded in waves. “Awesome.”

Elton was thankful he didn’t ask any questions about the new album, since there wasn’t anything to tell. John returned with hands full of bottles, and two waitresses at his heel, each holding two trays, each crowded with a plethora of new bottles and glasses for the table.

Elton ooh’d like he was being presented with 10 billion pounds, hands readily splayed on the table as the two girls set the drinks down, swiping back the trays afterwards.

“Alright, thank you very much,” Elton said, then looked around at everyone. “So, when are the rest of you going to get yourselves something?”

The table erupted with another group laugh, and Elton relished in it.

“Kidding,” he added, lifting a couple of the drinks he’d eyed when they were still on the trays, lining them up in front of him like a huddle of potions. “Kidding, obviously. But I am taking these. The rest of you, you can take whatever you want, alright? And any other drinks you want from this point on—on me.”

The table cheered, and after knocking back more drinks, conversation and laughter flowing and weaving so smoothly around each person, Elton was at long last pleasantly tipsy. At long last _comfortable._ He hadn’t drank enough to become almost-drunk in so long. It was good. He felt content. He was lying back, legs resting over the armrest, half-drunk martini number-whatever in hand, lips dipping against the glass to lap at it every so often, until that drink was gone and it was time for another that was ready and waiting for him.

Julianna’s—assumed—boyfriend came over from out of nowhere, leaning between the two of them to place another drink in front of her. She reached up, kissing him tenderly, fingers curling in his mop of hair, before sitting back and lifting the new drink as he inched in, dragging a new chair to the other side of her.

Elton didn’t remember seeing her finish her first one. He also didn’t recall seeing the boyfriend until then. He looked into her empty glass, then across to her new one, where he watched her take a sip then fish out what looked like a tiny flower onto her straw, then pop it into her mouth, eating it like it was a crisp.

Elton, finding himself bemused and curious, sat up, setting his own drink aside as he leaned in to get a better look.

“Are those flowers?”

Julianna giggled, setting her straw back into her drink. “Yes.”

Elton watched the small yellow, white, and pink flowers bobbing on the drink’s surface amongst the ice.

“And you’re eating them?”

“I’m eating them,” she confirmed, shrugging. “I always eat them.”

“I never knew that was a thing. What’s the drink?”

“It’s called Sakura. It’s Japanese,” Julianna said, swishing the straw before setting the glass back on the table, gently spinning it towards him with her fingertips. “It’s quite nice, I always get it here. Try it.”

“Are you sure?” Elton asked, interested in trying it, but not wanting to seem rude, or greedy.

“Yeah!” Julianna nodded enthusiastically. “Go on.”

Elton paused, glanced towards John, who, in turn, was paying no attention, and then spun the straw around, taking in a subtle sip, not wanting to inhale her entire glass.

He swallowed the slightly perfumey liquid, looking off at nothing in particular as he assessed it.

“It is quite nice,” he said. “It tastes like… flowers.”

“It does taste like flowers.” Julianna smiled. “Try one.”

“A flower? Eat one?”

Julianna nodded again.

Elton hesitated before figuring he’d had more peculiar things in his mouth, and scooped a white flower out, looking at it stuck to the end of the straw.

He slipped it into his mouth and chewed it momentarily, though there was hardly anything to chew—it was like chewing a piece of tissue paper. He swallowed it. Its flavour was exactly what you’d imagine. He hummed, acknowledging the taste.

The floral flavour reminded him of being young—seven or eight, sitting on his hunkers, raking and digging through his grandmother’s back garden. Which she permitted, of course—she had a rusty spoon set aside especially for his excavations. She was a much more lenient guardian than either of his parents. He’d pluck rose petals from the row of bushes that lined her pathway and plop them into a jar, mixing in a few strands of grass and leaves, before presenting the concoction to her as a perfume. She’d always play along, agreeing to dab some onto her wrists and telling him that it smelled wonderful, then ask how much it would cost her for some. Elton would often be tempted to taste it and his nan would smack him on the wrist, telling him, _‘Don’t do that, Reggie!’_ But a couple of times, and for whatever reason, he sneakily did it anyway. That was similar to the flavour of this drink. Without the alcohol aftertaste, obviously.

“Weird,” Elton eventually said, drawing a titter from Julianna. He tilted his head from side to side, the corners of his mouth curled downward. He took another small sip, reinforcing the fond memory he hadn’t revisited in some time, and smiled, wondering what she was doing now. “But nice… Not bad. I prefer the drink, but it’s mostly just the idea of the flowers that’s strange.”

“Isn’t it?” Julianna swivelled the straw around to take another drink herself. “I think,” she began, “the flowers kind of… _mute_ the flavour of the alcohol a bit. Do you know what I mean? That’s what I think, anyway.”

Elton nodded, listening wholly to her every word as she rambled, like what she was saying was mind-blowing. She was probably one of the only people on Earth who could manage to make a Birmingham accent sound dainty. He hadn’t been drunk in so long, it was divine.

Everybody enjoyed drink after drink, and Elton found himself becoming very drunk, very quickly.

“Elton John,” barked a familiar voice, though Elton couldn’t quite put his finger on who it was until his heavy eyelids flickered upwards, immediately spotting the source. The wide-eyed and laughing Keith Moon had appeared in between Sam and George, unabashedly nestling himself between them on an invisible chair.

Elton had only met him a small handful of times, so he didn’t really know him all that well. He knew what he was known for, though. Being a tad eccentric, and always lit and ready to go. Saying that, any interactions he’d had with him had always been pleasant.

“Keith!” Elton replied, matching the level of fervour in Moon’s voice. “How are you doing this brilliant evening?”

“You know what I was thinking,” Keith began erratically, seemingly unable to keep his limbs from juddering. “The boys and I are making a movie, man. Right? We’re making a— I saw you sitting over here, and I thought to myself— I just thought. Okay. You should be in it.”

“I should be in it?” Elton said, not knowing whether this was some form of Who-style joke, or if he was being serious and he should be flattered. He scoured for signs of the others waiting in the wings.

“Yeah!” Keith grinned, baring the black void in his otherwise toothy smile. The gap almost perfectly matched his permanently Moon-sized pupils, in size and opacity.

“What is it?”

“Oh, it’s crazy,” Keith said, swiping at the air. “It’s this crazy— It’s about the Pinball Wizard. You know the— It’s fucking crazy, man. You should come and be in it. It wouldn’t be a lot. A scene or two. Do you want to?”

“Sure,” Elton agreed, half-joking, sharing a glance with John, then Julianna. He lifted his glass, which he now realised was empty, and Sam reached over, sloshing a volume of wine into it. Elton took a swig and smiled at Keith. “I’ll be in the movie. Are you sure the rest of them are alright with this arrangement?”

“They will be,” Keith said, bounding to his feet like a Labrador. “It’s perfect. We’ll be in touch. Don’t forget!”

Elton exchanged another look with Julianna and called out after the man who was galloping away: “Oh, I won’t!”

“Well, on that note,” Sam said, “who wants to head inside? Get the _real_ party started.”

Elton downed the remainder of the wine mixed with the remnants of other drinks that had been in there over the night, and stood up.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

“Not so fast,” John said, taking hold of his arm. For a moment, Elton felt a surge of panic rush through him from the point of impact. His dismayed eyes met with John’s, who was returning a rarely-acquainted soft expression.

“What?”

“Follow me.” John’s hand slacked from its hold on his forearm, linking instead with his fingers. “I want to give you your present. Before you go off and get yourself Moon-faced, and end up forgetting everything about it.”

He’d already forgotten about the gift. He’d barely given it a second thought before, but now he wondered why he had gotten him anything. It wasn’t their relationship’s anniversary, and it would have been weirder if it was. He’d stopped with anniversary gifts at least two years ago. This had to be special.

Elton followed John’s lead, the stone below his feet feeling soft, the drag of his shoes making it seem and look like they were raking through actual sand.

John led him to a white garden swing that sat in the corner by the entrance, away from all of the hubbub. The wooden swing was decorated with white flowers, and it said in red paint along the top of the frame, _Maison de L’amour_ , which, even Elton with his very basic understanding of the French language, was able to piece together. The entire swing set looked a bit tacky, especially that part, but also the fact that the whole thing looked so out of place in general didn’t really help its romantic appeal any. It wasn’t even there the last time he was. But tackiness like that, when in the right setting, Elton could be more than happy to eat right up.

He sat himself down delicately, lips pursed and eyes happily slitted, like a content little cat, hands rested on his knees. He rocked slightly forward, then back again, watching John grinning down at him.

“So? What present did you get for me? I’m excited.”

“I can tell,” John said. He sat down, turning so that he was facing him, knees pointed inward. Elton swivelled after him, mirroring his posture. “Okay. Now, I chose these especially for you. I got them while I was out this morning.” John was talking lowly, making it slightly difficult to hear him over the man singing from the other side of the roof. Elton focused on his mouth, attempting to lip-read.

“These? Them?” he interrupted. “There’s more than one?”

“Yes, there’s two.”

“I didn’t even know you were out this morning. Whereabouts?”

“Wonder _why_ that is, pet. You were asleep. Now, I want you to shut your eyes.”

“Shut my eyes?” Elton gasped, then did so.

“Yes,” John laughed. “Okay. I’ll give you the smaller one first.”

“Ooh.” Elton held out an open palm, then switched to holding both hands closely together, then back to just the one. “How big is it?”

“This big.” John promptly set a box into his hand.

Elton excitedly ooh’d again, opening his eyes and clutching the palm-sized jewellery box with both hands. “What is it?”

“Open it, you wee muppet.”

“I know.” Elton fanned his hand, returning it to the box to suspensefully pry it open, peering inside. He cooed, “Ooh, it’s a ring!”

“Have you even looked at it?”

“I’m getting there, I’m getting there.” Elton opened the box fully to reveal a chunky, grandiose gold ring, a large butterfly present on top, the entire thing engulfed in glittering crystals, pink and white. Elton chirped at the sight, almost wanting to snap the box shut again. He took another look at it, then made the same sound.

John laughed, setting a hand on Elton’s knee. “Is that… a happy squeal, or—”

“Happy,” Elton said, gasping as he rotated the magnificent rock, savouring the array of flashing lights it gave off. “Oh, God, John. Happy! Are you fucking kidding? It’s so lovely, I love it so much. You didn’t have to get me this!”

“But I wanted to.” John squeezed his leg, then he leant back, removing his hand to reach into his inner breast pocket. “And there’s more.”

Overloaded with emotion, Elton chirped again, his feet excitedly thrashing below him. “Can I put this on first?”

“I suppose. But don’t fucking lose it. I’m begging you.” John laughed again. “Cost me a pretty fucking penny. Maybe should’ve waited ‘til we got home or something. This might be a bit of a disaster.”

“No, no, no,” Elton said, carefully setting the box to one side to demonstrate his mindfulness and safekeeping. He held his hands out, wriggling his fingers. “I’ll look after it, I promise. I’ll not stop looking at it all night, she’ll be fine.”

“She?”

Elton nodded ardently, busy surveying the rings already taking up space on his fingers. None of them were as pretty as this one. He plucked a diamond one off his left middle finger, holding it in John’s face. “Take this.”

John took it from him, placing it into one of his pockets.

Elton returned to his new ring, rushing to get it out of the box so he could see what the other present was. He thrust the butterfly onto his finger, holding it out to admire one more time, then rested his hands back on his knees.

“Alright, both hands out for this one,” John directed, and Elton did so. “And shut your eyes.”

Elton did, and a bigger, more horizontal box was placed in his palms.

“Open,” said John. “Now, don’t go calling me cheesy for this one. Let me explain it first.”

John had already opened this one, and was smiling expectantly. It was another extremely lavish piece of sturdy jewellery, only this time it was a necklace, a similar gold, and its pendant appeared to be a little cluster of plants or grass, with a band around the middle, complemented, again, with pink and white crystals.

“What are they?” Elton asked, to clarify. He gently touched it. “It’s really beautiful.”

“They’re reeds,” John said through a soft smile.

“Oh, _don’t._ ”

“Let me finish.” John motioned to the glistening piece of jewellery. “I know it’s deplorable, but—”

“Oh, no, it’s really sweet,” Elton said, looking him in the eyes. “It’s perfect, John. Truly. Thank you. I love it.”

“Really?”

Elton nodded.

“I thought it was quite sweet,” John allowed. “I worried you might find it silly. They aren’t from the same shop, I got the ring first, wandered around some more, and eventually stumbled upon that, and I had to get it.” He returned his hand to Elton’s leg. “I thought it would be a nice reminder for you. Of me.”

Elton nodded again, admiring the piece. “It will be. It is.”

“And also help you remember… how much I care about you. And that I love you. That’s what both of them are for.”

Elton nodded his head for the third time, looking back at him.

“And,” John said, leaning in and planting an affectionate kiss on his lips, “that even when we’re apart, we’ll always be close to one another.”

“I love you,” Elton murmured against his open mouth.

John smiled, pecking another kiss. “Here,” he said. “Let me put it on.”

“Oh, okay.” Elton handed the box over and turned.

John removed the necklace and dropped it down the front of Elton’s chest, below his shirt. The cold touching his skin made him shudder slightly.

“John,” Elton said, looking back over his shoulder. “The chain. Did you make sure it’s not—” he flapped his hand, scrunching his features, “the annoying kind, that pinches?”

John exhaled. “Yes, I made sure it wouldn’t be the kind that pinches you. I know you hate that.”

“It’s annoying,” Elton said. “Plus, those ones pull my hair out, and my head doesn’t need any fucking help doing that.” He traced his fingers around the ends of his hair. “It’s not really long enough anymore, anyway. But knowing my luck, it’d still happen somehow.”

“Don’t worry,” John hushed, kissing the nape of his neck. “Your hair’ll be fine.”

John clipped the chain together, and the weighted piece of jewellery dropped and clung to his chest. It was heavier than he’d imagined, but there was something nice about it. It was grounding, in a way. Comforting. He hoped it served that purpose forever.

He spun around again, facing his lover, eyes dancing fervidly over his features.

“There,” John said, undoing the second button on Elton’s shirt. He reached inside to pull the necklace out, resting it on top of the fabric.

“I love you,” Elton said in response.

“I love you, too. Now, come on.” John rose to his feet. He shoved the boxes back into his pocket, then held his hand back, and Elton took hold of it immediately, clopping after him like a five-year-old.

“Where’re we going now?”

“To have more fun,” John said. “Remember?”

+

They walked back to the table their friends were still sitting at, getting bombarded with comments about how cute, how lovey-dovey they were, because every one of them had been gawking over the whole time. The frosty blonde was still gawking, skinny arm set on the table, hand supporting his chin.

“Did he get you that one?” Julianna said, fingers fiddling with the new chain swaying around his neck. She held the pendant gently.

“Yup.” Elton pressed his chest forward and held out his left hand, wiggling his fingers at her. “And this. The one in the middle.” He presented his middle finger to her face, cackling loudly.

Julianna grabbed hold of his hand to get a better look, keeping his middle finger upright.

“Obviously it’s that one,” she said, studying it. “I would’ve noticed that before. It’s gorgeous. You’re very lucky.”

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” Elton said, letting go of a theatrical sigh, removing his hand from John’s to tuck it around his waist instead, his other fanning on his own chest. He grinned, squeezing him. “I _am_ very lucky. Extremely lucky. He loves me—” He reached up, pecking a kiss on John’s cheek. “Don’t you?”

John nodded, settling his own hand on the small of Elton’s back, flashing a wink back at him. “Of course I do. Don’t forget it.”

“You two are so cute!” squeaked Julianna, clapping her hands quickly.

Elton turned from John to face the others, grinning proudly, happily, ignoring the other two aloof characters. Genuine happiness was burning every cell of his body. Amplified by everything. The alcohol, the kisses, the touches; even the gifts themselves radiated a feeling through him that was incomparable to anything else. He felt good, dreamily so. It almost felt surreal. He loved this moment and wanted to stay in it, that same emotional state forever. It was pushing down the lurking terror that was still faintly tangible amidst it all, clinging to his insides, that things would end up falling apart again somehow, that nothing ever ended up the way he hoped or it seemed.

“Enough, for crying out loud!” Sam jokingly protested, jostling to the front. “Let’s go!”

“Let’s go!” Elton echoed, hands shooting up into the air.

Everybody pooled back through the circular doors, heading down a couple of sets of stairs and into another dark hallway, lit only by the spotlights and occasional glowing white sign labelling what path went where. They turned down the one that read ‘LOUNGE 1.’ Music grew closer.

They entered another set of double doors. People sat in the long line of booths running down the side, each booth paired with a huge, circular window and array of hanging fake plants that drooped downward, cigarette smoke rising and pirouetting above them. Other people were visible further down, dancing on the glowing floor by the bar. The electronic disco music currently blasting packed its force into Elton’s ears, coursing through the rest of him. He could feel it in his chest.

John clinked the maroon rope from its barricade to the VIP area, allowing Elton and everyone else ahead of him. VIP area was a fancy name for the space separated by a wall but led out to the same dance floor as the main area; the only real difference being that it was closed off by sturdy hunks of rope, you had to have a name for yourself and a reservation, and that it was perfectly acceptable to pull out a bag of cocaine and dice it up right there on the tables, which conveniently had large mirrors in their centre.

They copped a booth in the corner. A few of the other booths were taken, but it was pretty vacant compared to the other side. Sam and John headed to the bar to buy another few rounds for the table, and the rest sat down.

After sinking myriads of drinks between them, Sam wasted no time before he whipped out a king-sized baggie of coke, thwacking it onto the table.

“Anyone got anything to cut this?” he asked, patting at his pockets. “I forgot.”

The willowy blonde reached into a bag he was holding, feeling around for a few seconds before pulling out a small razor and slipping it across.

“Damn, okay.” Sam poured out a mighty amount of the white stuff. The blonde guy smirked, quirking his head to the side at the same time as if asking, ‘What else do you expect?’ Meanwhile Sam diced the powder into equally as massive lines.

“I take it you’re all in on this,” Sam said. “It’s free coke. My treat.”

“In on snorting it,” began George, “or climbing it?”

“Hell yeah!” Elton shouted, deeply and obnoxiously loud, avoiding paying any sort of attention to John’s reaction. Not like it really mattered—he’d be doing it, too. _Nobody_ in their right mind was going to turn free coke down. He sat forward. “Give me some of that.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be getting your kicks tonight, man,” Sam said. “All of you will.”

Sam pulled out his wallet, lifting out a load of notes, spraying them over the table.

Elton lifted a fifty, rolling it into a neat coil.

“Hey, I want that back afterwards.”

Elton scoffed, “What do you think of me, Sam?”

“Nothing, man. If anything, that was an insult at me. I know you aren’t going to steal it, the issue is I haven’t got fifties to lose.” He shrugged, laughing and pointing the razor. “Unlike you. Which is how I knew you’d be carrying a total of zero cash on you. I’m a kind person.”

“You are,” Elton said, standing up to be able to reach the centre. He spread his torso on the table, rolled up note to his nostril, snorting up the entire heft of a line laid out for him. He finished, letting his body fully rest against the mirrored surface, groaning loudly, eyes rolling back. It was already total bliss, and the drug hadn’t even taken effect yet.

“Attaboy! Welcome back!” Sam gave a few firm slaps to his back before ducking in to snort his own.

Elton sat back, watching everyone else bobbing into the centre, like those toy drinking birds, snorting their own pile of powder. Even John.

Elton settled comfortably, swallowing against the dripping solution that was crawling down the back of his throat. It wasn’t entirely rancid to him anymore, in fact it was kind of nice, but he chased it with a gulp of gin anyway and watched the colourful lights skimming along the ceiling, and the air around him, change from blue, to red, to green, to purple, and back to blue again. They danced over his new ring, and he rotated it for different effects. After a few minutes of light-gazing, his body began humming with electricity; the familiar buzz vibrating madly and sending repeated waves throughout him, filling him from his head to his feet. His heartbeat climbed with each thud of music that rattled his ribcage and pulse of energy that surged through him, his forehead and chest dampened from the sweat already prickling there.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, getting the urge to stand up, and as he did, it felt as though he had floated to his feet.

“It’s good shit, isn’t it?” Sam beamed at him, eyes as big as Moon’s from earlier.

Elton nodded slowly, his unblinking eyes scanning around the circle of people now below him. He watched their faces, how they smiled and their expressions contorted while they talked over each other. He looked back at the table, at the mountain of coke, half-finished lines, remnants of others, the mix of empty and full glasses, then suddenly at his own reflection staring up at him inside the dusty mirror.

He lifted his gaze without delay, without any thought, as Sam made another train of lines.

“Can I?” Elton motioned to the one closest to him.

“Yeah,” Sam said, continuing to chop finely like a chef. “Knock yourself out.”

Elton bent forward and raked another line before slipping out, making a headlong dash to the dance floor.

He stepped over the separating rope as Sweet’s ‘Ballroom Blitz’ started blaring through the air. It was dulled slightly by the alcohol, while on the other hand, amplified by the cocaine that was rushing through his veins at the same time. It made his stomach somewhat nauseous, but he was more than able to power on.

He waded his way through the crowd, brushing shoulders with the other pleasure seekers as he made his way to the centre, the heart, only to stand there, rising and falling on the heels of his feet, the infectious beat kicking him in the chest.

_Oh, it’s been getting so hard,_

_Living with the things you do to me. Uh-huh._

A hand touched the small of his back, making him draw a sharp breath. He turned to find John, grinning from ear-to-ear, enlarged pupils visible, the tint of bloodshot somehow tellable under the distorted light source.

John danced unabashedly, his body ticking from side to side, shoulders gyrating, every movement coherent with the fluid swivel of his hips. His nose fixed into a snarl as he shouted along with the lyrics. Elton didn’t consider himself much of a dancer, in fact, nobody did. But that didn’t matter at all when a powerhouse anthem was on, and his mind was shrouded by a mixed veil of drugs. He couldn’t help mirroring John, brazenly throwing in his body’s own natural reactions to the music too; hands hovering in the air, swinging and twitching to the beat, while he also energetically shouted along.

Elton seized John’s hands, swaying them rapidly with his own, platform shoes zealously stomping the floor, the pace growing more and more frantic the longer the song stormed on. The manic state climbed with every word and jerking sound, his heart seeming to get physically pushed up in his chest with every ascending pump of dopamine. He dropped John’s hands, arms flailing in the air like a garden hose, the rest of him bopping along frenetically.

_Oh, yeah! It was electric,_

_So frantically hectic,_

_And the band started leaving,_

_‘Cause they all stopped breathing!_

Time was hanging static in the air; he wasn’t sure how much had passed or what time it was. John stayed there to dance with others feeling what he was, while Elton headed back to the table for a drink, and fuck knows he didn’t need it, but it was automatic—he snagged a loose note still lying there and sloped against the table to rake another line. As he stood back up, inhaling sharply and pressing his other nostril shut, he noticed Keith Moon again, who was sitting a few booths down babbling with Marc Bolan, from T. Rex.

Elton loved Marc. Ever since featuring in _his_ band’s musical film _Born to Boogie_ a few years ago, Marc had become a somewhat good friend. Not close, by any means—they never stayed up talking for hours on the phone to each other—but they got along pretty well and could converse with ease, he was incredibly sweet. He was instantly recognisable from his spritely appearance and matching pint-sized stature buried beneath his mane of dark, cork-screw curls which seemed like it was hiding pointed tips on the ends of his ears, and the way that everyone sitting with him fed and bounced off his dazzling energy. He drank from his glass of red wine, which could have easily been replaced with a hollowed-out acorn and the table with a spool of thread, and it wouldn’t have looked strange at all. He’d always had an elfish essence, in the way he spoke—he had a very posh accent—as well as the way he looked. He could talk for hours about tall tales he swore were his reality, the enchanted stories and poems he’d admitted to dreaming up, or about the _Lord of the Rings_ books he’d gotten his (now ex, though they weren’t formally divorced) wife June to read to him, because while his interest in these things was high and almost all-encompassing, his ability to remain focused for long enough to read a novel was not all there, Marc had disclosed to him.

Elton, charged with excessive confidence, approached their table much like Moon did to him earlier in the evening.

“Hello,” he said, eyes dancing in his head, Cheshire cat grin fixed to his features.

Marc drew away from his exchange with Keith, beaming brightly when he saw who it was.

“Ellie!” He’d dubbed him that during the recording of his film. It was silly, but that was what made it good. “What’s up, man? My good old friend, how are you?”

“I am doing great! Doing really good. Excellent. On top of the world, Marc, how about you?”

“Oh, fantastic.”

“Ellie!” Keith mimicked delightfully, despite not being there. “He’s gonna be in our movie!”

“Yes, I am. Definitely.”

“That’s cool!” Marc said enthusiastically. “That’s really cool. Ellie was in my film a few years ago. Very groovy stuff. Can’t wait to see yours, though, man,” he said, motioning to Keith with his glass. “That’ll be great. The Who.”

“Yup.” Elton shifted his weight from one foot to the other, swirling his palms together. “Yup. Can’t wait, honestly. It’s going to be great.”

“Do you want to sit with us, Ellie?” Marc asked. He flapped his hand around, shifting closer to Keith. “Come on. Come on, sit down.”

Elton crept in, plonking himself down, legs restlessly jittering with adrenaline below the table. Marc threw his arm around him, drawing him close.

“I really love you, man. I really do.”

“Thanks,” Elton said, looking into his eyes. They were as dilated as his probably were. “I love you, too.”

You wouldn’t have taken Marc as somebody who was into coke—if you took away the young rockstar factor. He had a very much childlike innocence about him. You’d take him to be completely teetotal. In fact, he had been until recent years. He wouldn’t even take a puff of weed that Elton offered to him. He probably still wouldn’t do that, but nowadays, he would gladly nose-dive into a pool of cocaine without question if it was on offer. It was similar to Elton’s own affair with drugs. Less than five years ago, drugs were something he would’ve turned his nose up at, too. These days, he was more inclined to dipping his nose _in._

They continued rambling and talking for a while, most of it not seeping into Elton’s brain at all. He was only really catching snippets of conversation.

“I could get you a bell to ring when you need me,” one of Marc’s friends said to him. “You can ring it any time. So long as it’s not around my boyfriend, someone I’m looking to get into, or if I’m already sitting on someone’s lap trying to get some dick. Any other time, you’re good to go.”

Marc laughed loudly, throwing his head backwards.

Elton gave a laugh out of instinct, though barely following, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth and noticing a slick of mucus that must have came from his nose. He discreetly swiped it off onto the seat and ran his hand over his mouth once more, recognising that it and his nose had lost almost all sensation.

“Would you care for another line?” Marc singsonged in his ear, and Elton nodded his head.

Elton, Keith Moon, and Marc Bolan, along with a few others from Marc’s entourage, vacuumed up another set of lines, washing the chemically backdrip down with a few mouthfuls of wine or champagne. They kept talking, the rapidity of their speech gradually increasing so much so that if those who weren’t part of their coked-out bubble were to eavesdrop, what they were saying would probably be completely unintelligible. They chattered and convulsed with laughter for what seemed like hours, but what was probably actually about half an hour, tops.

They hit another line each and then Elton looked across the dance floor, spotting John, still there, though slightly off-centre. He rose to his feet as if by magnetisation, bidding Bolan and Moon adieu with a rattle of ‘bye-bye,’ ‘goodbye,’ and ‘see you later’s, flapping his hand at them absently.

He meandered through the crowd once more, towards the vibrant lure standing in the shadows, pushing past others who were also in their own versions of heaven. He wrapped his arms around John, reaching up to kiss his lips, who kissed back at him, though Elton’s entire mouth, including his tongue and even teeth, seemingly, had now gone numb.

“John.” He exhaled against his lips. “Fuck me. You have to fuck me.”

“Now?”

Elton nodded like a buggy rattling down The Rockies.

John nodded back with almost-equal enthusiasm, catching hold of one of Elton’s hands that were travelling briskly around his body. ‘Time of The Season’ by The Zombies swam in the air around them. John made a b-line for the set of private bathrooms that lined the far wall of the VIP area. There were only three, and one of them appeared to be in use, judging from the red plastic visible through the tarnished metal doorknob. He stepped to the next one, twisted the handle and shouldered the door open, quickly locking it behind them. They kissed in the dark red light, Elton uttering quiet, appreciative moans throughout rapid pecks on and around each other’s mouths, slowly leading to drawn-out, careless kisses, teeth occasionally clashing together, while both sets of hands ravaged across the other’s body like they hadn’t touched before, legs interlocking.

Elton trailed his dead lips from John’s, forming a chaotic row of sloppy kisses down his neck. He pulled his shirt apart to kiss his chest and shoulders, then dropped to his knees to be level with his trousers’ opening. He hastily attempted to pull his belt apart, eventually managing it before John had to intervene. He edged his trousers down a little while John rushed his fingers back through Elton’s hair.

_Has he taken (has he taken)_

_Any time (any time)_

_(To show) To show you what you need to live?_

Elton pried John’s painted-on underwear from his skin, trailing them off enough for him to be able to take hold of his semi-hard cock. He pressed his lips to it, sucking while his hands gripped John’s thighs. A smothered version of ‘Jump into the Fire’ by Harry Nilsson trickled through the locked door, the dull buzz drilling through the thick air that was already festering around them.

_You can climb a mountain, you can swim the sea,_

_You can jump into the fire, but you’ll never be free._

_You can shake me up, or I can break you down._

_Oh, oh._

Feeling pressure at the back of his throat, he was silently thankful that it was completely numb back there too. John exhaled steadily as Elton took his entire length into his mouth. He sucked for two minutes before stopping abruptly, getting to his feet, and gripping his hands back into John’s clothes.

“Right,” he murmured, stepping backwards until his lower back met the sink’s edge. He let go of John long enough to rip his own trousers over his ass, pulling his underwear down and jumping back onto the counter.

John dipped forward. Elton pulled him up again, shaking his head.

“No.” He touched a hand to his face before curling it in his suit again. “Fuck me. Just fuck me, right now.”

John instantly rutted against him, fingers sinking deep into his thighs.

Elton let go of a ragged breath, letting his head fall back hard against the mirror. He heard John spit, then he yanked the lapels of his blazer, forcing him closer.

“Come on.”

On the second word, John thrust himself inside, evoking a loud gasp from Elton as he twisted the fabric balled in his fists. He writhed against the mirror, eyes clenched shut. 

_We can make each other happy._

_We can make each other happy._

_We can make each other happy._

_We can make each other happy._

+

When the door opened and the couple stepped back into the public, the soupy air seeped out from behind them, secondhand heat brushing past as it left.

Elton took a deep breath in the cleaner air, past the coke still caked to the walls of his nostrils, in an attempt to let both fill him.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment at which his trousers had come all the way off, but it was fine, because they were still in tow, strewn over John’s arm.

“You need to put these back on,” said John from behind.

“I’m fine.” Elton sauntered ahead.

“It’s not really an option.” John tugged him into the nearest booth, pushing him to sit. “Put them on.”

“Okay,” Elton groaned, taking them from him and wrestling with them, feet getting caught in the wrong places until John helped him out, holding out one leg at a time. Then Elton stood up, wedging the rest of himself in, fastening the button at the top.

“Happy?” he said playfully, twirling on his foot. He rested his hands on his hips, focus jumping to surveying the room. The bar. He smacked his lips. “I’d love a drink.”

“I’ll get it for you,” John said, then nodded to the table they’d first sat down at, where Sam, George, and Julianna were still sitting. The two strangers were nowhere in sight, thankfully. It was like they’d both vanished into thin air.

John kissed his jaw discreetly. “You go sit over there.”

Elton gave a confirming nod back, hurtling towards them and plunging onto the leather.

“How are we doing?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically; not waiting for an answer, before he lifted a half-empty glass of what appeared to be whiskey. “Whose is this? Can I have it?”

They gave off shrugs and faces of uncertainty, and that was a good enough response to allow him to neck the rest of the drink back.

“Having a good night?” Julianna asked, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

“Oh, yeah.” Elton set the glass down and crossed his arms, resting them on the table, his left leg bouncing and shaking below causing the range of glasses to vibrate. “Yeah. Really good. Never felt so good, ever, I think.”

“Do you want another bump of coke?” Sam asked, pressing a line towards him with the razor.

Elton looked at the powder, then back at Sam. He nodded, inhaling instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, pushing a finger across his nose and checking it. “Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks.”

“There you go.” Sam smiled, clacking the razor twice on the mirror, making sure he had every last speck. “And I’ve got one here for me. You guys good?”

Julianna and George said they were good.

“Woo-oo…” Elton bent over, snorting the lot, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath. He pinched his nose, shaking it aggressively. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He inhaled again sharply, then held his breath.

“Stop giving him coke.” John filed into the booth, setting down the drinks he’d bought. “Here.” Contentiously, he pushed a tall, black drink towards Elton, then pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

“Don’t start being a cunt _now,_ John,” Elton said, reaching for his drink, dragging it close to his chest. “I’m having a good time. You wanted me to go out—I’m out.” He cocked his eyebrow, bringing the pint glass to his lips. “This is what we do, is it not?”

John thinned his lips passively, looking into his own drink.

Elton took a whiff of the drink John had given him, unable to compute what he was smelling. “What is this?”

“Hm?” John hummed, pretending not to hear. He looked up with an aggravating, blank stare.

“I said…” Elton flared his nostrils, clinked the inner part of his new ring to the glass. “What is this? What’s the drink?”

“Drink it and you’ll see.” John breathed a short laugh. “It’s just a vodka and coke.” He exhaled a murky grey cloud and added, “Cola.”

“Lovely,” Elton said, raising the glass.

He pressed a smile before guzzling the entire drink in a few drawn-out gulps without pausing. He struck the glass down and rested his elbow on the tabletop, cradling his temple with his finger, his rattling leg getting more irked with each passing second. The anger frothing in the pit of his stomach mixing with the sickness that was starting to pool there as well was beginning to brew a deep nauseousness. He shut his eyes, attempting to block out as much stimuli as possible. He tried to drift into thinking about nothing, attempted to shift his focus onto something else. Anything. So that he could move on with the night. But everything was spinning. _Everything. Spinning_.

“Do you need a drink?”

Julianna’s soft voice interrupted his attempted rumination.

He grimaced, holding back, not wanting to snap at her. He nodded fleetingly, keeping his eyes closed.

“Of water,” she said.

Elton opened his eyes then, being met with her doe-like and concerned expression.

His own fell flat.

“No.” He shook his head repeatedly. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” she pushed, placing a hand on his arm. “I’ll get it for you… It might help.”

“No, it won’t,” Elton spat, shutting his eyes again. Nothing was going to quell this. “I’m fine, Julie. Thank you.”

Elton rested his forehead on his forefinger and thumb, headache budding behind both of his eyes that were flashing warped splotches of colour onto his eyelids. He shut them tighter, trying to push the pounding back. The sickness twisted his stomach violently, making him lurch forward and slap a hand over his mouth. He attempted to settle back again, thinking that had settled it, but vomit heaved up from his stomach, his hands unable to do anything to stop it from spraying everywhere from between his fingers. It spewed over his lap, soaking the entire front of his shirt in the process, and the second he gave it a thought, and the rancid smell hit his nostrils, more surged up his throat behind the already profuse amount pouring from him, splattering at least a metre across the floor. He hunched over, continuing to retch and contort, unable to stop himself.

“Holy shit,” Sam said, hopping away.

“Oh my God,” Julianna cried out. “John. What can we do?”

“Nothing.” John stubbed his cigarette out on the table and shot up like a bullet, walking around to drag Elton to his feet. “Get up.”

Elton hung against him like a puppet. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You already have been sick, you idiot. Get off me.” John shook him. “Get it together.”

The shaking only made Elton’s stomach more unsettled, expelling more vomit down himself.

“Get it together!” John shouted, shaking him again before shoving him away from the table. He stepped over the puddle of sick to grab onto his upper arm, one of the only parts of him that wasn’t drenched. Elton stumbled, but managed to find his footing thanks to John’s anchoring grip. He stayed doubled over, hand on stomach, attempting to gauge whether there was anything more to come out.

“Come on,” John urged through gritted teeth, pushing him forward. “Out. Go. Go!”

Elton attempted to keep up with his pushing, legs feeling like they were going to give out below him, feet crossing over one another.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, gagging again. He slapped his hand onto his mouth and swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“You will be fucking sorry.” John swung the doors open to rush him along the hall.

“I am sorry,” Elton blurted, “I’m sorry.”

“You will be.” John propelled him towards the stairs. “Move.”

Elton grabbed the banister with both hands, trying to breathe through his mouth, past the vomit still clinging and burning the back of his throat. He tepidly put one foot onto the first step before John jerked him backwards, rushing ahead and trailing him behind instead.

“John! Stop it.”

John didn’t give a response, seething breathing audible as he dragged him down the multiple sets of stairs, out into the seating area at the front of the building.

He pulled out a chair, hauling Elton into it.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.” He was talking in a hushed tone, punctuating each word with a stern finger poking centimetres from Elton’s face.

“Fuck off.” Elton slapped John’s hand, which didn’t budge. He gazed up at him, watching his eyes widen, changing quickly like a great white shark. Elton knew he had gone too far.

John’s ricochet reaction was to smack Elton across the face with a resonant crack, then continue to point his finger.

“You are going to regret that. Do you fucking hear me? Just you wait.”

“What,” Elton screamed, hand to his burning cheek, readjusting his glasses, “you’re going to make me regret smacking your fucking hand? You hit me in the fucking face!”

“And I’ll do more than that when I come back down,” John swore, unblinking, voice remaining unsettlingly stifled. “Alright? You are in _trouble_.”

John stood upright and walked back into the club.

 _“Fuck you.”_ Elton turned in his chair to watch him disappear up the stairs. He turned back to the scatter of staring people and took a deep, hitching breath, then wiped the sick that was beginning to harden on his chin with the back of his hand, swiping it on the side of his trousers. He couldn’t go anywhere. He didn’t want to push John any further. He couldn’t. God knew what he would get. He sat waiting, his heart racing with worried anticipation. He looked down at his vomit-saturated shirt, able to see his heartbeat through it. Biting at his nails, he let go of another shaky breath, propping a foot onto an adjacent chair, the other one left juddering on the pavement.

There was a rush of feet down the stairs. He turned to see Sam and Julianna hurrying towards him, George at their heels.

“Elton,” Julianna panted. “Are you alright?”

Elton didn’t speak, knowing John would be following. Speak of the devil, moments later, another heavy pair of footsteps made their way down, surging past the other three. He didn’t have to look to tell who it was.

“Alright.” John took hold of the back of Elton’s shirt collar. “Up you get.”

Elton coughed, rising to his feet. “Fine, John. Fine! I’m getting up.”

“What are you doing?”

John ignored Julianna, trawling Elton away from the building, taking him around the corner.

Elton thrashed, trying to loosen his grip.

“Get off me! Get the fuck off me!”

John stopped and let go. He was bound to say something. Start shouting. An argument was going to break out.

John stared, jaw set tight.

Elton didn’t see it coming.

His hand cracked against his head, sending it crashing into the shutters of the closed store behind him. Elton yelled, and the metal rattled like a roll of thunder, resonating across the entire street. A herd of feet scurried closer from around the corner.

John didn’t stop there. He rooted his fingers in Elton’s hair and smashed his skull back against the shutters again and again, causing his glasses to fly off onto the pavement. Julianna, Sam, and George, as well as random passersby, shouted over.

“What’s going on?”

“Hey!”

“Stop it.” Julianna walked closer, but kept a cautious distance. “Stop it, John!”

“John, stop!” Sam shouted.

“Let go of me, you crazy bastard!” Elton grabbed ahold of John’s blazer and redundantly attempted to kick him while he continued slamming his head into the metal.

Sam grappled with him, pulling his arm back, but that just made him use the other one.

“Stop it,” Sam said, furiously trying to grab the other arm. “Stop it, seriously. John, this is crazy. Fucking stop!”

Sam managed to wrangle both his arms behind him, pulling him away a few feet, trying to talk him out of it while Elton slouched to the ground, the throbbing back of his head leaning against the shutters it’d been brutally bashed against.

“Why don’t you crack Julianna over the head while you’re at it, John?” Elton called out, watching him scuffle with Sam.

“Quit it, Elton,” Sam shouted back.

“Hm? We all know you like hitting women, too,” Elton continued brazenly. He touched the back of his head and looked down at his fingertips, checking for blood. There wasn’t any. “You might as well. You’ve already went this far.”

That was a tailored taunt, something he liked to bring up when he wanted to rile him up. Years back, a female reporter had said something to John that he didn’t like, and he had no hesitation before punching her between the eyes, knocking her out cold. That was one of the earliest and most pivotal occasions Elton had gotten a glimpse of that side of him. He didn’t get away scot-free—he was made to pay a fine. But that was nothing. He didn’t do any time for it.

Elton had defended him at the time, though even the following day, his outlook had changed, and continued to change every time he reflected on it since. Like the fluctuation of his feelings regarding John himself.

Julianna rushed to Elton, but before she was able to say or do anything, John managed to untangle himself from Sam, charging back over and yanking Elton to his feet to crack his head back again.

The repeated clattering exploded against his ears. He didn’t yell this time, just shut his eyes tight, attempting to withstand the overbearing sound and pain.

“Stop it, John!” Julianna shrieked as Sam forced himself in between the pair as a human shield.

“Stop it.” He spoke calmly, bracing him with his hands in the air. “John, you’re going to regret this tomorrow. You’ll be in a jail cell in the morning. Stop. Now.”

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Do you hear yourself? Quit it. You’re going to end up in jail, John, this is insane.”

Julianna roped her arm through Elton’s, leading him back to the front of the building, setting him into a bench. She sat beside him, delicately draping her arm over his shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

Elton nodded stiffly, pain shooting all over his head.

Julianna rose up, checking the end of the street before ducking back. “Are you sure? Do you want me to get you a drink? Of water?”

Elton nodded again. “Yes, please.”

“Okay.” Julianna got up, lending a smile, then slipped back inside the club.

Elton glared at the end of the street, hoping to God he wouldn’t see John hurtling towards him again. _Please, please, please._

“Here,” Julianna said when she appeared next to him, fixing her arm back over his shoulders. She offered the pint of water. Elton accepted, taking a few sips.

“Sorry,” he eventually muttered.

“Don’t be sorry. What’re you saying that for?”

“I’m sorry for saying he should hit you, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just… I don’t know, trying to piss him off. But I’m sorry. He could’ve hurt you.”

“But he didn’t. He hurt you.”

“I’ll be alright.” Elton laughed it off, his face barely moving to avoid causing himself anymore pain. He took another drink of water. “You’re brave,” he quipped, moving his arm, referring to his vomit-stained clothes. “I wouldn’t sit next to me. Nevermind touch me.”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I can have a bath.”

They laughed together.

“Your glasses are lying over there still… Do you want me to go get them?”

Elton shook his head, swallowing more water. “Leave them there. Somebody else can have them.”

“Are you sure?”

Elton nodded. “Whoever finds them’ll need to be blind as a bat though, or else they won’t be of any use to them.” Then he let go of a breath, shaking his head slowly and wincing at the thought: “God, I hope I’m not reading any of this in the paper tomorrow.”

“Hopefully not.”

“Elton John,” he began, half-smiling, “Gets Head Smashed In By Raging Lunatic…” He paused to laugh. “Unnamed.”

They shared another restrained laugh as John came back around the corner, still brooding, smoke still shooting from his ears. Elton avoided any sort of eye contact, and Sam acted as a bodyguard scurrying along next to him.

“You,” John snapped, shoes clicking to a stop in front of him. Sam panicked, legs spreading into a defensive stance, ready to have to hold him back again if needed. “Be ready in five fucking minutes. Five. We’re going.”

Elton didn’t lift his head, but nodded. John walked off, back into Quicksand.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Julianna asked once more.

“Yeah.”

Elton gulped down as much water as he could.

There was a slight silence as some of the few people who were loitering around pretended they weren’t watching, while others blatantly stared with their mouths agape.

“I don’t want you going home with him,” Julianna said, then faltered.

“I’ll be fine.” Elton pressed his lips into a forged smile. He wasn’t sure what he was saying was true, in fact, he was almost certain it wasn’t. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that. “It’ll be fine.”

The same Rolls-Royce pulled into the parking dip again, and Elton watched as John walked over, holding its door open.

Elton set his half-empty glass onto the pavement, giving Julianna another glance before shuffling towards the car. He slumped into the seat, keeping himself to himself, cautiously making every attempt not to get any of the vomit still on his clothes on the pristine, white leather.

The car drove smoothly for a while, neither saying a word. The smell drifting from his clothes was disgusting.

Luckily, there was a partition between the driver and backseats, otherwise Pete surely would have made some sort of comment about the scene he was glancing at in the rearview mirror.

“You embarrassed me back there,” Elton said quietly, not looking. “I won’t ever be able to go back.”

 _“I_ embarrassed _you?_ You did that yourself.”

“You beat the shit out of me in front of everyone…”

“I didn’t beat the shit out of you,” John levelled.

“Well, whatever. You hit my head against the shutters of a fucking shop. Multiple times,” he hissed. “And everyone saw. I can’t go back there, or even look at any of those people ever again. They’ll think I’m a fucking pansy.”

“Are you not?”

Elton looked at him. John was smiling back at first, then turned away.

Elton slid down in his seat, backing out from the discussion. He looked out the window for the rest of the journey at the tops of buildings, the pain that was webbed across the back and sides of his head seeping further into reality the more the drugs started to leave his system. He pressed his hand to his scalp, trying to repress it.

At home, they walked up the steps, John slightly ahead and already unlocking the door before Elton had made it up. They stepped inside and John switched on all the lights. The house brightened up in sections, like a warehouse.

“Take those clothes off you,” John said, hanging his blazer on the wall rack, loosening his tie. “You’re disgusting.”

“Oh yeah, John,” Elton snarked then pivoted, walking away to avoid any type of backlash. “Wouldn’t have thought of that. Was thinking of sleeping in this.”

“And have a fucking wash if you want me getting into bed next to you.”

Elton threw his clothes into the kitchen and staggered up the stairs, overflowing with pent-up frustration.

He mimicked the things he said, repeated what he himself had said, and added in things he wished he’d said. Put him in his place. Gave him a taste of his own medicine. It was therapeutic to think of things he wished he could say or do back. But wishing was all it could ever be. Because if he ever tried anything, it would just make things worse. Going up against John was a losing battle. For anyone. The general rule, Elton had learned, was that if you were going to go against him, in any way, you would lose, so there was no point in even trying. John would just come down ten times harder. It was better to be passive, even though that was incredibly taxing, both physically and mentally.

Elton took a few painkillers and cleaned himself up enough to pass; he splashed water over his hands and face, rinsed off the jewellery that had been plated in vomit. Then he feverishly checked his scalp, making sure there was no noticeable damage to his hair. There didn’t seem to be, it wasn’t anymore decrepit than it was, so he crawled into bed, curling up, awaiting John’s debatable arrival and braced himself for whatever that would entail. Eventually, he did appear, slinking through the door in his underwear, still wearing his shirt, but fully open, and missing his tie.

“It’s not fair,” Elton whispered, accidentally thinking aloud.

“No one’s ever said life was fair. Sometimes it’s not,” John said as he ambled closer. “Things don’t always go how you want them to.”

Elton knew that too well. He rolled over to face him. John sat on the edge of the bed.

“You really hurt me.”

“Wise up, Elton,” John said, running a hand over Elton’s hair, the opposing gentle touch causing him to shiver. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Elton didn’t bother trying to question him on that. It didn’t make sense, but he no longer had the energy.

“You could have given me a concussion.”

“Wise up,” John chided again, thumb brushing Elton’s ear. “Don’t dramatise, Elton. You embarrassed me. You embarrassed me in front of my friends. In front of the people who work there. I’ve known them years. If anything, it is me who shouldn’t be able to show my face there again.” He sighed, letting his shoulders slack. “I snapped like that because you… you made a fucking scene. You made such a scene and you were completely oblivious to it. I was the one who had to take the brunt of dealing with what you’d done, because you were so out of your mind. I tried to do something nice for you, I got you that jewellery, I took you out, and that was how you thanked me. You threw up everywhere. And you got it over everyone, not just you. It was a disgrace. You realise I had to pay for what you did? I offered to help them clean it, but they wouldn’t let me. So I gave them money for it, also as a means to stop them from blabbing to the papers. So don’t try to make me feel guilty, Elton, everything that happened there tonight was your fault. I did what anyone would.”

Elton took in what he said, eyes twitching back and forth as he thought it over, then pitifully mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine,” John breathed, removing his hand from Elton to clap it to his own bare chest. “But forget about it now, okay? Just try not to do it again. You always let yourself get carried away.”

“Okay. But I am really sorry.” Elton looked up at him through blurred vision. “For causing a scene, embarrassing you… making you feel guilty. All of it.” He sighed, letting his head sag against the pillow again, eyes shutting. “I didn’t mean it, and I’m tired now, but I am sorry. I feel bad. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Do you forgive me?”

“That’s okay,” John said, but it clearly wasn’t. He patted Elton’s shoulder twice. “Get some sleep.”

“I promise, John.”

“Promises don’t mean anything coming from you.”

What he said cut, but he’d said it with pure disappointment. Not anger. And somehow, that was worse. A prickly feeling spiked in Elton’s chest like a hot dagger.

John got up and moved to shut the light off, creaking the door open.

Elton instantly turned to look over his shoulder. “Are you not going to sleep with me?”

John shook his head.

“Oh…” Elton shifted in the sheets, pulling them up further. “Okay, then.”

“Goodnight.”

“I’m sorry,” Elton croaked one last time, trying.

John pressed his lips into a thin line as he backed out and shut the door, sapping all light from the room.

Elton dropped his head back to the pillow once more, letting go of an unsteady breath as thoughts washed over him in a wave. The feeling in his chest twisted, digging deeper. It hurt like how he thought a real dagger in your heart must feel, and he silently hoped it would kill him.

John had every right to be mad. Just like he had every right to throw him against the shutters. It was his fault. All of it. He deserved it. He was so ungrateful. And John was drunk, he almost always got like that when he’d been drinking. He’d taken cocaine. And sometimes he did things he didn’t mean. He was always sorry after. Elton couldn’t hold what he did tonight against him. Not really. Not even solely because he was intoxicated, but because he did so much for him, and all Elton could ever do in return was throw it back in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted in this chapter were:  
> The Ballroom Blitz by Sweet  
> Time of the Season by The Zombies  
> Jump Into the Fire by Harry Nilsson  
> I do not own these.


	6. Step On the Thin Ice Lightly

+

Another night of mostly staring at the ceiling, then opening his eyes in the blinding sunlight, not knowing whether he’d slept.

After John had shut the door and went to sleep somewhere else—probably a guest room, he wouldn’t subject himself to the sofa—Elton had tried to cry. Try, because he felt like he had to, like he needed to expel everything that was bottled up, get fucking rid of it, but he physically couldn’t. He lay, staring at the ceiling, duvet bunched in his fists, muscles in his throat constricting, eyes burning, but they wouldn’t cry.

He opened his eyes for the final time at around 10am, but didn’t get out of bed until his analog clock read 12:37.

His head was still pounding, ten times as hard now, the backs of his eyes feeling like they were bruised, hurting each time he moved them even slightly. He slipped his glasses on, the act of seeing clearly causing his eyes more distress.

He wandered listlessly from his room, making his way down the stairs and into the living room, in search of John. There was no sign of him.

“John?” His voice resounded off the wall-length windows. His stomach twinged. He turned where he stood. “John? Where are you?”

The white piano by the stairs’ surface was so well-polished it was almost chrome, and the warped image of himself that it was projecting made his skin crawl.

Dot walked in. Another one of the housekeepers. Dorothy Pollan was an older lady, small and slightly podgy, her black hair always curled into the perfect perm. She was the first and longest-serving housekeeper he had. She was paid to be there of course, like the others, but she had also silently assigned herself as a sort of _mothering_ figure to him. Which would have been odd, and extremely unwelcome, if it was one of the other people who worked for him, or anyone else for that matter.

Dot had kids of her own—three, all in their thirties—and she’d talk about and refer to them as if they were siblings of Elton’s, or people he knew at all. ‘Our David,’ she’d say, ‘he brought me this lovely vase from Prague. Because he’s all over the place with his job, you know. Like you!’ Except the only references he had of these people were the tidbits of information she told him or the childhood photos of them she kept in her purse. Elton guessed it was because she filled the naturally-formed role with such ease that he never found any reason to protest it. He found her comforting. She was a doting woman, and always managed to pacify with her lilty and gentle Geordie accent.

Her sweet face was crumpled with confusion. “Everything alright?”

Elton pinched his lower lip. “Uh-huh.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, fine.” He fastened his arms around his exposed body; one arm belted over his chest, fingers dipped into his armpit, the other around his abdomen. He mentally thanked whoever was up there that he didn’t opt for his usual at-home sleeping attire last night—nothing. “Uh, do you know if John’s here?”

“Yes, pet, he’s outside,” Dot said, motioning behind her, face remaining violently puzzled.

“Oh. That’s good.”

“Do you want me to fetch him? He was giving his car a wash the last time I peeped out at him. Why’s he doing that, do you think? Never seen him do that before.”

“His own car?”

“Yeah. Not one of the other ones… not Pete’s. Not that he’d do that either. But even so, I would’ve thought he’d leave that sort of thing to someone else.”

“Well, if it’s his own car, darling, it’s because he thinks no one else can do it properly. You know what he’s like. He takes these notions.”

Suddenly her face was blotted with another expression, one that sadly said she did know, all too well. Then she smiled it away. “Do you want me to go out and get him?”

“No.” Elton wafted his hand, then tucked it back under his arm. “Don’t worry about it. Just wondered where he was. Actually, do you have today’s paper on you by any chance?”

John said he’d made sure nobody who worked there would yap to the press by pecuniary means, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t take the money and go ahead and do it. Or one of the other carousers who watched the whole thing transpire and _didn’t_ get a pay-off.

Dot hummed, deliberating.

“Yes, I should do,” she said. “Wait a wee second.”

She twirled her finger in the air, shuffling back into the kitchen. Elton followed and sat himself at the table while she ruffled in her big handbag.

“It’s just,” Elton began, carefully leaning his head, that felt as though its skull was pliable, on his hand. “Last night. John and I, we went out, and it was a bit… well, it was a bit wild. To say the least. I wanna see… see if there’s anything about it.”

“Here you are.” Dot turned, setting the newspaper in front of him. “Well, hopefully not, love. That wouldn’t be very good.”

“Indeed.” Elton sat a little more upright and examined the front page. The slight knot of anxiety inside of him unfurled itself a bit. “It wasn’t front page-worthy at least.”

“That’s good.”

He flipped to the following page. “Let’s see…”

He went through the entire newspaper, little by little, finding nothing.

“Looks like it’s fine,” he said, relieved that he shouldn’t have to consider what happened last night ever again. Or try to play it off to some snooping journalist as never having happened at all.

“That’s good,” Dot said again, giving a sweet smile. “Are you hungry? I’ll make you something if you’d like. How about some tea as well? Might help.”

Might help with what? Probably with how hungover and dead he was bound to look, he thought. It was also more than likely she was able to read his troubled body language.

The thought of eating made him want to be sick. Again. He scrunched his eyes closed. “Don’t trouble yourself, darling, I’m fine for now.”

“It’s no trouble! I could make you some toast, pet. Something small.”

“Thank you, but really, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll get something later on… Thank you.”

“That’s okay. Well, I’m just gonna finish hanging up this laundry—shout if you need me.”

Elton attempted to disguise his wince as he thought about her having to look at and deal with his vomit-covered clothes. She’d have some perception of what exactly had gone down last night. _God_.

“Will do.” Elton smiled at her, continuing to do so even as she turned to walk away.

John walked in from the hall, twisting out of Dot’s way, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, lacy suds gloving his hands, leaving stepping stones up his arms. He slung a bucket to the limestone floor and grabbed a tea towel, scrubbing his hands dry and red. His eyebrows furrowed together as he approached him, carrying himself as well as the tea towel with an overabundance of arrogance, voice oozing with false concern.

“Elton,” he said. “Sweetheart, you look dreadful.”

Elton dropped his eyelids. “I _feel_ dreadful.”

“Well,” John said, swiftly ending that exchange there, throwing the tea towel onto the table in a sopping heap. “While you were sleeping like the dead, I was giving my car a _needed_ wash. It was in a state. And I can’t even think why, can’t remember the last time I drove the thing… But hey, probably head back out soon, give the inside a going-over too while I’m in the mood.” He tutted. “And I would’ve offered you some breakfast—or lunch, but by the time you got up, it was no good. Aw, but I’m sure you can get yourself something.”

“Nah.” Elton trailed his fingers along the hair on his leg, lazily scratching. “Not really hungry.”

“That doesn’t matter. You still need to eat. You have a busy day ahead of you, too.”

Elton’s empty stomach sank, the pain in his head loudening.

“What am I doing?” he asked, almost begged.

“You’ve got work to do. Don’t try to tell me you’ve forgotten.”

John pushed his hair from his face then left, and Elton followed him out to the living room, watching him flop down onto the sofa, folding a leg on top of the other. He muttered something about not being arsed, cleaning the inside of his car in a bit, as he lifted the remote control, turning the television on.

“Oh,” he then said clearly. “Keith Moon called, about an hour ago.”

“He was here?” Elton pressed his fingertips to the side of his head in an attempt to quell the hammering there.

“No,” laughed John. “He rang. On the phone. He was going on about a film. What is it you agreed to exactly?”

Elton groaned, massaging his scalp. “I don’t fucking know, honestly. He wants me to be in some film The Who are making. He said it’s not a big thing, but I can’t be fucking assed.” He turned, giving a heavy sigh before beginning to trudge back up the stairs. “I’ll call him back later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back in a second,” Elton assured, ignoring the actual question.

He slugged himself back upstairs, glancing out the window at the red Chevrolet sitting in the driveway, its gleam instantly blighting his brain, making him squint. He scoffed from the pain, and at the sheer obnoxiousness of the dazzlingly clean vehicle, and headed to his en suite bathroom, locking the door behind him and plodding to the mirror. He really did look dreadful. He looked like shit.

“No thanks to you,” Elton quipped below his breath. He put the mounts of his hands on the sink, leaning as he brought his face dangerously close to the mirror. Between each of his eyes and hairline, a splurge of darkening blue and purple bruises now framed his face. He ran a finger down them gently, even that loose touch causing a shooting pain. A small cut was visible below his left eye. He pressed his fingers through the sides of his hair, checking there for bruising as well; there was an abundance of bumps forming below the surface of his scalp. There was a bit of bruising, but obviously not as noticeable as the ones that now littered his complexion. He sighed, identifying another slice on the outer corner of his left eyebrow.

“Fuck.”

Dot would have some idea of what had happened last night, indeed.

He reached to the cabinet, unlocking it with the key protruding from it. That was what John referred to as his _stash_ of pills. But it was just a bathroom cabinet, like most people had in their homes. That prick.

From the plethora of bottles and battered boxes crammed into such a tight space, ever-threatening to fall, Elton lifted a bottle of what he knew to be painkillers. Tramadol. It wasn’t something he had ever been prescribed, like most of what was in there, but he’d found that it worked wonders for pain of any kind, and just about any other thing in between. It took you out of it for a little while. He looked vaguely at the back of the label, catching a glimpse of the words ‘take one to two every 4-6 hours,’ but one or two would not do enough to even begin to help the unceasing pain pulsating around his skull. He told himself he’d take three. Thinking this, as if John could hear his thoughts. That prick. He always had him worried about what he was doing, even if he wasn’t there. Even when there was no problem. That fucking prick.

Five or six clunked into his hand. He supposed that’d do. The more the merrier. He dropped them all into his mouth at once and turned the tap on, bowling his hands below the weak stream until he’d collected enough to send the pills down his throat.

He arrived back in the living room when the drugs had worked their magic and he had an air of self-satisfaction enveloping him, because John had no actual idea of what he’d done. John, who was still contently sat watching TV. None the wiser.

“Alright, then. What’s Keith Moon’s number?”

“I wrote it down,” John said, not taking his gaze off the television. “It’s by the phone.”

Elton made his way into the hall, finding a little torn-off piece of notebook paper by the phone.

He exhaled, lifting the receiver, thumbing the numbers into the keypad. The calling sound droned for a few seconds before clicking, a rapid rustling sounding from the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” Elton was unable to force himself to sound very enthusiastic. “Keith?”

Keith crowed a laugh. “Elton? John?”

“It’s Elton John, yes.”

Keith hollered again, the piercing sound driving Elton to lower the receiver from his ear.

“Woohoo! Okay. So. Do you want to come down tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Uh, what is it you want me to do again?”

“You’re the Pinball Wizard!”

“ _I’m_ the Pinball Wiz—” Elton cut himself off, huffing air out through his nose. “You said the film was _about_ the bloody Pinball Wizard. That doesn’t sound like a small role to me, Keith, I haven’t got time—”

“No, no! No. It is. It’s a small role, I swear. He’s— Roger’s the main character. You’re just— You’re the Pinball Wizard.”

There was a muffled crackling, then another voice spoke down the line.

“Gimme that. Elton.”

“Yes?”

“Right. It’s John. The only thing you have to do is sing our song ‘Pinball Wizard,’” Entwistle stated matter-of-factly. “You know, like, how you did it on ‘Caribou’? Your last record? That’s it. Moon can hardly string a fucking sentence together here, but that’s all it is. You and Roger are kind of… having a duel. You come down, we shoot a scene, you’re done.”

“That sounds fine,” Elton supposed. “I can do that.”

“You can do that?”

“Yup. You can count on me.”

“Great fucking news.”

“Wait, hold on. Where is it?”

“The King’s Theatre,” Entwistle said. “It’s in Southsea, Portsmouth. You can make it down here from wherever you’re at, can’t you?”

“Southsea,” Elton murmured, scribbling it onto the same piece of paper as the number. “Yeah, I’m sure I can. Don’t see why not.”

“Brilliant. See you tomorrow, then. Say, one?”

“One PM, it is,” Elton said. It was surely PM. Although, with them, anything was possible. It wouldn’t have been a huge surprise if he’d replied, ‘No, AM.’

“Alright. See you.” Entwistle’s voice faded down the wire. “There. Was that so difficult?”

“Bye.” Elton clacked the phone back on its hook, exhaling as he leaned against it for a moment, processing everything.

He walked back to John, who was creased in half laughing.

“Well? How’d that go?”

“They’re mad,” Elton said, throwing himself down beside him. “Things still aren’t all that clear, but they want me to go down to film it tomorrow. In Southsea.”

“What?” John’s face quickly fell. “I hope you told them you aren’t able to do that.”

“Well.” Elton paused, voice wavering. “No…”

“No? You have your own shit to do, Elton. _Why_ on earth would you agree to do that?”

“I don’t know… But he said it wouldn’t take long, it’s only for one scene. After tomorrow, it’ll be over and done with. Then I can—”

“That doesn’t matter. You need all the leeway you can get. You need to get an album out in… basically two weeks. Two fucking weeks. That’s not very long. I don’t think you realise that.”

“I know,” Elton said, beginning to think it maybe was a foolish thing to do. Too late now. “But you know me, I can whip something up in no time. Don’t be worrying about it.”

“I’m not,” John said. “I’m not worried at all. My only concern is for you. It’s you who’s going to be stressing over the little time you’ve given yourself. It’s you who’s going to be worrying. But if you think you can manage, that’s fine.” He refocused on the television, a talking head on-screen, the volume too low to hear any of the talking.

Elton hummed emotionlessly, the lightness and heaviness toppling his head from side to side wooing him out of taking the situation _too_ seriously.

“When’s Taupin coming? He needs to be here as soon as possible.”

“Bernie?” He hadn’t crossed his mind in what felt like ages, even though the last time was… yesterday. “Oh, he said he’d be here by next week.”

“Next week.”

“Yeah, but I can start making up some tunes now… just randomly, to get me in the mood to write.” Elton shrugged, attempting to be persuasive. “I’m sure Bernie’s coming up with stuff right now. No, he told me he was.”

“Well, it’s in your best interest that he is. Doesn’t really affect me. It might be a good idea to call him, get him to come a bit earlier.”

“No, it’s fine… He doesn’t need to, he can come here when he comes, and him and I can sit and get a few songs written. Piece of cake.”

“When are you going to start making up these random tunes of yours?”

“Soon,” said Elton. “I’ll start soon. Probably not today,” he added, allowing himself some time. “But I’ll definitely start doing that soon. Just need to get back into the swing of things, that’s all.”

“Well, motivation isn’t going to miraculously come down from the sky and hit you on the head, Elton. It doesn’t work like that. You need to do something to get started.”

He did have a point.

Elton huffed out a breath, standing up. “Maybe I’ll do something later, then.”

“That’s all you ever say. That is _all_ you ever say. You’re cutting it so short to start working on this. Are you right in the head? You keep putting it off like this and you’re—”

His voice faded into a buzz in the background as Elton walked away. He wasn’t sure why he stood up, but he took it as an opportunity to take himself back upstairs. Lie down for a while. Think. God, actually, maybe not that. Do anything that wasn’t talk, or attempt to write a song.

“—idiot. Hey. You not going to eat something?”

“Nope,” Elton shouted back. “Probably leave that ‘til later as well.”

John didn’t give an answer to that, and Elton didn’t look back to see one either. That was a perk of living with John. He didn’t really give a shit if you ate anything all day—as long as you were still capable of doing the things he asked of you. Whereas Bernie cared too much, and was all over you like a Mother Goose if you denied a biscuit.

Elton didn’t attempt to come up with any tunes that day. Wasn’t feeling it. He didn’t do much in its place. He spent most of the day lying in bed, convincing himself he wouldn’t be eating anything when he began to feel hungry, drifting in and out of the hazy state he’d put himself in and continuing to up the ante by munching on pills like Skittles, all while wondering what Bernie was doing. He could have been writing songs, which made him feel a bit guilty for not trying to do the same. He may have been doing something else, maybe trotting around the fields surrounding his house on one of his horses. He could be doing anything. He could be doing the same as he was. Wondering what he was doing. Though, Elton doubted that.

+

The following day, he got himself up at 8am. Which was a super early time to wake up at, and a difficult task, when you’d gotten so used to long lie-ins.

He threw on an oversized red and black dogtooth jacket, brown beret, and oversized shades in an attempt to shield and distract the world from his ever-developing bruising. He poured another portion of painkillers into his hand, this time not bothering to estimate how many there were, before downing them with another gulp of bathroom tap water. He didn’t exactly take them for the pain this time—it was bearable at this point. It was more so knowing they were there, and that he could. And that being a little drugged up on painkillers made doing anything flow so much easier.

Unlike John’s theories, he didn’t have any cocaine stashed away. He’d used it all before going to Bernie’s. The taste of it at Quicksand had brought it back to the forefront of his mind. Now, he found himself hankering for it. Not in the way a drunk craved his drink—though, he’d also kill for one of those right now. Painkillers were good, they supplied something, but it was not the same. They weren’t his personal cream of the crop for a good time.

He scooped a small extra portion of pills for later into his jacket pocket and exited the bathroom, lifting his old satchel backpack from its place on the floor where he’d shucked it off several days ago.

He’d had it for years, that bag, and it definitely showed its age. But he’d never throw it out, even if it began hanging together with single strands of thread. Bernie had bought him it, at least seven years ago. That visible age gave it character. Plus, the fact that it was so drastically out-of-character: probably the most downtrodden-looking, non-extravagant thing he owned, made it all the more amusing to lug around and watch people stare at it perplexed.

He chucked his wallet inside, thinking he could allow himself a _small_ ice cream if they happened upon a vendor at some point, it sounded better than anything his kitchen had to offer. Then he headed out to the awaiting Rolls-Royce, accompanied by John.

He made every attempt to appear bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this early in the morning—about 10am, by the time they got out the front door—trying to prove he was ready for whatever the day had in store, and that it wasn’t a bad idea. Although, the only thing that he could say was bushy but definitely not bright, were the tail-ends of his hair that stuck out from below his hat and sat at the back of his neck, looking tattered and plain horrible.

“I’ve got to get a haircut,” Elton said, after catching second sight of it in the car’s window. He threw himself into the backseat, shuffling over to allow John to scoot in next to him, and attempted to stash the frazzled pieces of his hair inside his hat. “My hair looks fucking hideous.”

“What hair?” John said, supplemented with the shit-eating smirk that never failed to make Elton’s blood boil.

Elton shot him a stony look.

John squeezed his knee. “It’s a joke,” he swore, just like it was scripted, rattling his leg around at the same time. “You know I’m joking.” He lifted his arm, swinging it around Elton’s shoulders, though there was still a sufficient gap between them. “Your hair looks fine.”

“You don’t need to lie,” Elton countered. “It looks awful. I look like I’ve been trailed through a hedge. Backwards. I look awful in general. They might not want me, looking like this.”

“Ssh. Who told you not to do this in the first place?” John gripped the shoulder he was resting on. “Look, I’m sure they’ve got make-up people down here to help you with that.” He waved his finger around the bruises he’d left, then plucked at one of the loose wisps of hair curled into Elton’s hat. “So, if it’s bothering you so much, why don’t you ask them to trim your unruly locks while they’re at it?”

Elton tutted, swatting at his hand and pushing his hair back under.

“As if I’m going to do that, John. I’m going in for a single bloody scene, I’m not asking them to give me a haircut. They’d think I was a right fucking asshole.”

“Just trying to help,” John said, slinking his arm back. “Suit yourself.”

Another one of John’s irritating turns of phrase from his arsenal. _Suit yourself._

Elton shifted another inch away, lips thinned to stop himself from snapping at him. If he did allow himself to, it would make the entire day worse than it had to be. Instead, he allowed himself to stew in his agitation for the hour and a half’s drive.

+

Arriving in Southsea, Portsmouth, the annoyance had subsided for the most part, mostly due to the cathartic wooziness clouding his mind and body.

The sun was bright and high in the sky.

It was definitely too warm for the jacket, and the hat, but there was zero chance he was going to take either of them off.

People were scattered on the pavement while seagulls drifted overhead, the air alive with both of their chattering and cawing; the majority of the birds vultured over the pier in the distance. A goldmine to them. The ferris wheel down there was visible through the heat haze, turning listlessly. Large, roofless green and white tour buses juttered by. Luckily, the small portion of road the theatre was on was off limits to the public for the sake of The Who, allowing the vehicle to line up with the building’s door as closely as possible. An already-hyper crowd of one hundred people, at the very least, at either side of barriers not fit enough to hold them back, howled when he stepped out. Somehow, he hadn’t expected this.

“You wanted to come,” John said, adjusting his suit, smiling like a ventriloquist. “Try and smile a little.”

Elton scoffed at him, then smiled the most deranged smile he could muster and fluttered his fingers at the people waving signs that were barely readable in the rushed ushering inside. 

Keith Moon was standing in the entrance hall talking to a lady in a cravat.

“Elton!” Keith said, detaching from his conversation to come over and frantically shake both of their hands. “John!”

“Alright?” John said, superciliously looking elsewhere.

Elton kept smiling. “Keith. All good?”

“All brilliant,” Keith affirmed, then turned, paddling speedily with his hands.

Impressed by the architecture, Elton looked at it as they followed him. The black and cream walls that led up to a large circle in the ceiling, held up by golden cherubs. The shiny floor tiled with black and white checkers, though not in the traditional one white, one black layout. They were scattered, but still amounted to a pattern of some sort.

Elton and John clicked across the tiles, following Keith through doors and along corridors, sharing the odd glance with each other. Elton wondered if Keith knew where he was leading them at all.

“I can’t believe you came,” Keith called back, then stopped at an already-open door, holding an arm out. He grinned. “Go on ahead.”

“Thank you.” Elton bowed, slipping through. “Of course I came, I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“I know.” Keith followed after John. “But it’s still cool that you’re really here to do this.”

“Oh, you know I’d do anything for you.”

The rest of The Who were perched along a chain of chairs next to the giant red curtains which obviously led out to a stage. They were talking amongst each other, fiddling with instruments, while their team worked around them.

“Hello, sir.”

A young, blonde lady, hair tied back neatly, approached Elton, almost-curtseying as she smiled pleasantly at both him and John. It was the same girl Keith had been talking to.

“Oh, drop the sir, darling,” Elton said, flapping his fingers. “I haven’t got that far yet. Just call me Elton.” He gestured to John, slacking his backpack to his elbow. “This is John. My… manager.” He cleared his throat. “John Reid.”

“How’re you doing?” John held out his hand, flaunting a smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” the girl said, still grinning as she shook his hand. “Well then, _Elton_ , I’m Lauren. May I take your bag? I’ll show you where your dressing room is.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry, I’ll carry my own bag,” Elton said, patting it. “It’s full of crap, it’s got nothing important in it. Thank you, though, you’re a sweetheart.”

“No worries. I’ll take you through now, then, show you your costume.”

“Ooh. My costume? Can’t wait to see that, never even considered it.”

“You’re gonna love it,” chimed another voice. Elton turned, being met with the bouncing flurry of popcorn curls named Roger Daltry. “It’s fucking amazing,” he added, coming to a halt.

“You haven’t seen it yet?” Lauren’s eyes shifted between everybody.

“Are we going to faff about all day, or are we actually gonna get started on this?” Pete Townshend intervened.

“No, I haven’t,” Elton replied to Lauren, taking no heed of Townshend.

Lauren widened her already-huge eyes.

“It’s fucking ridiculous,” added John Entwistle, from where he was tending to his bass.

“Sounds perfect, then,” Elton concluded.

+

Lauren led Elton to a small changing room complemented with a small vanity mirror, lights lining its frame.

“Thank you very much,” Elton said, setting his bag onto the floor. He paused, then spoke quietly. “Are there… any make-up people here?”

He debated telling her why before watching her owlish green eyes drift to the sides of his face fleetingly, then return to meet his shaded ones. She nodded quickly.

“That’s good,” Elton said. “Thanks. Okay. So, where’s this costume?”

“Right over here.”

Lauren tittered as she trotted further into the room, motioning to a mannequin in the corner. Elton followed.

“Fuck me,” he uttered, eyebrows shooting upwards. “He wasn’t kidding about it being ridiculous, was he?”

Lauren laughed outright, clapping her hands together.

He really hadn’t. The costume itself was fine—brilliant, even. A shiny-sequined striped shirt, paired with a hat that, instead of a puffball, had a large pinball upon it instead. Must have been a Christmas tree decoration. White diamond-speckled glasses, red suspenders, and a pair of yellow wide-legged trousers. They’d need to be wide, too, considering the real kicker—the shoes. They were massive Doc Martens, and they weren’t just big, they were about three feet tall.

“How am I supposed to wear those?” His hand shot to his mouth. “Holy shit. Is it even possible to walk in these?”

“I think you can,” Lauren said, still amused. “I think they’re like stilts.”

Elton let go of a breath, looking them up and down. “What the fuck have I let myself into?”

It made Lauren laugh again, though part of him really wondered.

She left, and Elton removed his jacket that had been baking him alive, hanging it on the back of the chair at the vanity. He went ahead and put the costume on, apart from the hat and glasses—and shoes.

He sat down as another girl came in, bag in hand. She was tiny, her hair sat upright in an impressive Afro. Her eyes creased when they met his through the mirror.

“Hi. I’m Nina. Hair and makeup.”

Elton smiled back at her, then immediately implored, “ _Please_ don’t do anything with my hair.”

And she promptly told him, “That’s okay. I wouldn’t really need to, anyway. It would get ruined by the hat.”

“Right.” Elton nodded once, watching Nina potter around through the mirror, rummaging in her bag. She gently dotted thick make-up over his face, covering the bruising without a single utterance. A huge relief.

“Thanks.”

She smiled courteously and said: “No problem. They’re wanting to get out there and get a bit of a rehearsal in… before they start shooting.”

“Oh, yes,” Elton acknowledged, getting to his feet. “Well, better get my gear on.” He walked over, removing the accessories from the mannequin and putting them on. “What about these boots?” he asked, nudging one. “How do I put them on?”

“I’ll show you.”

“You do that, too?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, look at you.”

“It won’t be as difficult as you think. Go and sit down again.”

Elton did as she asked, while Nina fetched a small ladder from the side, bringing it over and propping it up, then going to lift a small basket of items that had been sitting next to the costume. There was a lot more work that went into wearing the shoes than he’d pictured. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Elton watched her kneel to the floor, squirming when she rolled his trousers up above his knees. He inwardly thanked his past self for taking the painkillers, and bringing extra. _Thank fuck for that._

“Okay, so I’m gonna wrap these pieces of foam around your knees,” she said, tapping her manicured fingertip onto one. She lifted the pieces of foam and quickly did so, tying them in place with several long shreds of material. She told him to hop up on the small ladder to properly align the shoes, and Elton jumped to his feet and waddled over, carefully hoisting himself up the ladder to perch himself at the top, rigid legs dangling over. She worked her magic, tying the sticks on the shoes to the foam that now adorned his knees with strips of velcro, securing them with thicker strips of cloth. Finally, she took a step back, accomplished hands on her waist.

“Okay, that should be it. Test it out, tap them on the ground.”

Elton tentatively straightened his legs, pressing a little of his weight down. “Yeah. They’re brilliant. Thanks.”

“You sure? Tight enough?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Nina smiled, offering her hand. “Okay, hop off. Carefully.”

Elton took her hand, slipping down onto the floor. He wobbled in an ungainly fashion, but gripped her hand harder and was able to steady himself.

“Fuck.” He shuffled forward a few inches. “I can barely move.”

And he felt like a fucking idiot.

“It’s okay,” Nina said. “You’ll get used to them after a little while.”

“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”

He hobbled with her assistance back out to where the rest of them still were, everybody cracking up at the sight of him lofting over them.

“You said you couldn’t get anyone else in time,” Elton grumbled, trying to appear flippant at the same time. “I doubt you had anyone else in mind.”

Roger laughed. “If you didn’t do it, we were going to have David Essex do it.”

“I’m sure. He didn’t do a cover of your song.”

“No, but he did send us one down. We were also considering your mate Rod.”

“That old bat?”

“Yeah. Her. But then Keith managed to get a hold of you.”

“And my version was obviously better than Essex’s.” Elton turned, placing a hand on his hip. “What do you think, John?”

John, aloofly standing in the corner, held his hand up, fingers bent into an O.K. sign.

“I’m glad _you_ agreed to do it,” Keith said, scratching through his hair with an abused drumstick.

“Oh, yeah,” Roger concurred whole-heartedly. “It all worked out perfectly.”

“I’ll be glad, too,” Elton said, finally finding his footing a little. He flicked his finger up. “But, only under the condition that you let me keep these after the fact.” He carefully tilted one foot. “I’m fucking terrified of falling on my ass, but I’ve got to have them as a keepsake.”

“Of course,” Roger said. “That’s a new look for you.”

Everybody shared a laugh, then it was down to business. Business being playing through a quick version of his rendition of their song a few times to set the pace, then running through the scene a couple of times. Turned out, the crowd outside were extras for the scene, too. It consisted of a pinball-playing battle, miming along and making an array of facial expressions as he goaded his rival, Roger, who was pretending to be deaf, dumb, and blind. It ended up being fun, and after just a couple of hours, they’d managed to get [a full scene they were satisfied with](https://youtu.be/joxyFDmh_LY), and it was finished. They said he could keep his entire outfit, not just the shoes, which Elton accepted graciously.

“That was funny,” Elton commented, skating down the hallway in his socks as John trudged a few steps behind. “Huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I could’ve won if I hadn’t been so preoccupied taunting Roger.” Elton giggled, stopping to allow him to catch up. “Am I right?”

“Sure.”

He didn’t care; he was making a point about this being a waste of valuable time. Elton dropped trying to talk about it, and his excitement decayed. He continued to walk at his side silently instead.

As they reached the dressing room, John said, “Be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Elton nodded and went inside.

He crammed his new outfit into his backpack. They said they’d send the shoes to him soon, as well as another present for taking part.

He got changed back into the clothes he’d arrived in and slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling for the pills he’d gifted to himself before he left. The last round was still in his system, but it could use a top-up.

There was only four.

He threw them back, harshly swallowing them with the help of nothing but a build-up of saliva, then sat, looking around, fingers tapping against the frame of the chair, waiting for somebody to knock and ask him if he was ready to leave.

A beautiful, sheer red scarf was hanging on a nearby rack of props and accessories. He took notice of the illuminated fire exit sign, eyes trailing down to the grey door below it. With spontaneous intent, he stood and grabbed his bag off the floor. He tried the handle and the heavy door opened smoothly. He looked around quickly, then, satisfied he was alone, nabbed the scarf off the rack as he bolted out, making sure to close the door behind him without a sound.

Outside in the salt-rich seaside air, he took a joyous inhale that washed into his head and swirled with the pleasant dizziness there, then wrapped the fabric around his neck, half-covering his mouth with it as a half-assed delinquent’s disguise.

It wasn’t going to be nicking it if he brought it back. Which he fully intended on doing. He wanted to roam for a little bit. Stretch his legs. Look around, stroll around, like anyone else would be doing on a day like this, while also hopefully going undetected. He steered clear of the front of the theatre, keeping on the path he’d already found himself on, heading in the opposite direction.

Stopping for a moment, he reached into his bag to find his wallet, shoving it into his pocket before carrying on. He was going to allow himself that ice cream. He was going to find it, make sure of it.

He laughed to himself, at what he was doing, and at the fact he probably appeared like a strange tourist to anyone whose attention he caught. He also didn’t care. Before going back to working like a dog, he had to have that day of fun. Of easing back into it. He sure as hell didn’t get it two days ago. He was going to get it now. He was going to create it.

He wandered along, finding himself approaching one of those tourist bus stops. He cackled as he loped towards it, fumbling again for his wallet. The driver was stood outside, leaning his back against the vehicle. A large man, with his hairy, brawny arms folded over his chest.

“‘Ow much?” Elton asked, making up a bizarre voice on the spot.

The man gave him a quick look up and down, black moustache twitching.

“Three pounds.”

“Ooh. That ain’t cheap.” Elton pulled out a twenty pound note, straightening out its creases, pushing it towards him. “Here. Make that do ya. Keep the change.”

The bus driver held the note, face puzzled, but he didn’t dispute; he pulled a ticket off the perforated roll hanging on his belt, holding it out.

Elton wasn’t a fool with money. He wouldn’t give it away willy-nilly to anybody looking for something from him, but this occasion allowed it. Because this man wasn’t looking it. He had no idea.

Elton pinched his ticket, hurrying onto the bus with a jingle of thanks. He giggled to himself as he bustled up the narrow staircase to the open roof. He settled himself at the back, propping his feet up on the other seats. Nobody else was on the bus yet, so he lowered the scarf from his face, grinning at nobody.

He was going to create it.

Once the bus started moving, he rested an arm along the safety rail, his other hand securing his hat to his head while the sea breeze wafted over him. The speakers on the corners of the bus blasted music—The Easybeats’ ‘Friday On My Mind.’

“This is brilliant!” he squawked. He looked over the rail at the people below, declaring the same thing again to them. Some people didn’t take any notice of him, others jumped and hollered back, throwing their hands in the air, giving choruses of whooping agreement.

He sat back again to rifle through his bag. He’d noticed it was slightly heavier than he thought it ought to be, given what was in it. He stuck a hand into the bottom, feeling around. Nothing. He dipped into one of its inner compartments, discovering what extra cargo it was holding, pulling out his journal. He hadn’t seen or thought of it in weeks. He’d brought it to Bernie’s with the intent to use it, but that endeavour had slipped his mind along with other things.

He flicked through its pages, not to re-read, just to look. He’d started journaling at about 13. It was therapeutic, and he’d kept every one he’d filled since. They were all stashed in his closet. Twelve of them. This one was his thirteenth. And he had no intentions of ever throwing any of them out, even though he never took them out to read through again. He just liked having them. He couldn’t rid himself of anything that held any sort of significance or memory, and that was exactly what they did, in the most literal sense.

Filled with a newfound inspiration, fueled by a fine rush of adrenaline and nostalgia, he reached back into his bag, knowing that if his journal was there, there would surely be a pen. Surely, there was, and he fished it out, pinning the ticket still in his hand to the outside of the book as he scribbled down things as they came to him. He began with random doodles: a little sun with sunglasses, an ice cream, a dog, to name a few. Others were of nothing in particular, shapes and lines. The combination of everything inspired tunes, so he wrote them down, as fast as he could, in their most primitive state—the odd music note, oh or la, squiggles, more drawings—he’d remember what everything resembled later.

The bus travelled the entire length of the coast, winding through a couple of the streets on its way. Elton was so busy taking note of the melodies that were flooding his brain—there were at least _four_ separate songs there—that he hadn’t noticed if there were any more passengers boarding and alighting or not. When the bus stopped at the other end of the promenade, he stashed his book and pen into his bag, slinging it back over his shoulder to leap up and scamper back down the steps. Thankfully, nobody else was on.

“Thanks, mate.” He expressed his genuine gratitude to the bus driver in the same voice from before, pulling the scarf back over his mouth. “You’re a champ.”

He skipped off the bus, hurtling towards the pier, bus ticket still clamped in his hand.

It was a lot busier, seemed to get a lot more traffic—both cars and people. The road, the path, the beach were all packed out. Some people were sitting in deck chairs, others nested in towels, while kids ran with kites and kicked sloppy sand at each other. Most men were in skimpy shorts with their shirts off, while women wore colourful bathing suits.

He felt overdressed and the sweat he was wearing acted as an extra layer, though he didn’t have the option to strip off, even if he’d wanted to.

He headed to the end of the pier, where there were an array of attractions and food stands. An ice cream van stood off to the side. He made a mental note of it.

A ring toss stand, words painted on it in yellow, circus-style font, caught his attention next, with its array of goldfish in see-through plastic bags dangling from it. He hesitated before mentally saying ‘fuck it’ yet again. There wasn’t anyone around it, apart from the bored-looking girl stood behind it. He approached the stand, marvelling at the fish hanging overhead, then noticed a sign that said: RING ONE—WIN A FISH.

“Do you wanna have a go?”

Elton looked up at the girl. Her voice was slightly husky, and her short ginger hair was bunched back into a stubby ponytail, her bellybutton visibly pierced with a sunflower-shaped jewel swaying on a little chain. She raised her painted-on eyebrows, blowing her gum into a balloon and popping it.

“Is that right?” Elton asked her, in another improvised voice, nodding to the sign. “I only need to get one, any one, and I get a fish?”

The girl nodded.

“How much?”

“50p gets you two tries.” She held up two fingers.

“Well, let me have a go, then,” Elton decided, diving into his pockets again and pulling out another twenty. He handed it to her. “Here. Take it all.”

“So you want…” the girl flicked her fingers up, counting, “forty tries?” She made a slanted expression but pocketed the money, slipping multicoloured rings onto her wrist.

“I won’t need _forty_ tries,” Elton said. “I’ll get it in two. You can keep the leftover money for yourself. How about that?”

She gave him another obvious look of perplexion, but handed him over only two rings. “Right…”

Elton readied himself, stashing his bus ticket away then slipping his first ring into his right hand, his dominant hand, eyeing up the posts he had to lasso. He flung it and watched it bounce straight off one in the first row, onto the ground.

He growled, stamping his foot in frustration.

The girl giggled behind her hand. “Are you still sure about what you said?”

“Yes,” Elton said, adjusting his hat without averting his focus, preparing himself again. He took a little longer to concentrate this time, then swung his second, letting go of it and watching it clip onto the edge of one of the sticks. He clenched his fists, and it balanced for a second, before dramatically sliding down over it.

Elton yelled, hands rocketing into the air. “Yes! What’d I tell you? I did it!”

Her giggle shifted to laughter. “You did,” she said, her monotone voice lifting on the second word. “You got your fish. Which one do you want?”

“Which one _do_ I want?” Elton’s finger curled to his lips as he examined his options. He hummed, then pointed to an orange and white one, speckled with little blotches of black on its head and dorsal fin. “I like that one. Can I get him?”

“Yeah!” The girl reached forward to pluck the fish from the awning, then handed it over. “There you go.” She wiggled her finger, bangles on her wrist jingling. “What’s up with the scarf, by the way?”

“I like it,” Elton replied, shrugging one shoulder. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah, dude. I dig it. Do you wanna have another go? It’d be nice for him to have a friend, don’t you think?”

“It would be,” Elton agreed, thinking as he cradled the bag of water like a newborn. “Hmm. But I want to get some ice cream first. I might be back.”

“Sure. See you later.”

Elton walked to the ice cream van he noticed before. Second thoughts crept into his mind, but he wrestled with them. He’d achieved something today—doing the thing for The Who, writing music. And it was fucking hot. And a once-in-a-million excursion. He could excuse it. If he regretted it later, then he regretted it. So be it.

He could fix that.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with an equally-as-sweaty hand, then used his sleeve instead, and a young black man in a bright orange polo shirt ducked his head out the van’s window.

“‘Ello!” Elton beamed, brandishing a brand new Cockney accent. “Lovely day, isn’t it? I’m out here having a terrific day and I hope you are, too. God, I am sweltered, though. May I have an ice cream, please?”

“Of course. What do you want?”

“Just one of the regular ones. I don’t know their name. Wait, wait—” He paused, holding out a hand. The man halted. _No, don’t. Don’t._ “Make it… two.”

“Sure.” The man smiled, tipping his head as he swirled the ice cream into a cone. He lifted another, doing the same. “Do you want anything on them? Sauce? Sprinkles?”

“Oh, God. Yeah. Give me a little of everything.”

“No problem.”

Elton tucked his new goldfish snugly into his jacket pocket, then watched the man roll the ice creams in multicoloured sprinkles and douse them in sauce—one with chocolate, the other with strawberry, then he stuck a chunk of Flake chocolate into each and leaned back out the window.

“Here you go.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“Sixty pence, please.”

“Here.” Elton pulled out a note and slapped it on the counter. “Twenty. Keep it.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yup.” Elton took an ice cream in each hand. “Keep the change for yourself.”

“Thank you very much. Um. Enjoy.”

“No, thank _you_ very much. And I will enjoy.”

The man left him with a smile, and Elton returned the gesture, giving a wink through his dark shades.

He made his way down to the beach where he scuffled along the shore, shoes grazing the tide lapping at them. He dawdled, eating the chocolate first, then alternating between licking the ice cream in his right hand, then the one in his left. After making his way halfway up the beach, and finishing both ice creams, the sun was beginning to dim. He had to go back.

He puffed air from his mouth upwards to cool his face, then lifted his goldfish out again, bringing it up close to his face. It bobbed mindlessly, mouth opening and closing. He wondered what he should call it. He’d never had a pet before. Not even a goldfish. He supposed, like past Bernie with cats, that was why he didn’t really know how to act around them. Animals, in general. He liked them, but hadn’t spent much time with them over the course of his life, didn’t have much experience. But he’d always fancied the idea of a pet, and a goldfish could be a good place to start.

He supposed it could be best to wait a while before christening it. Get to know it a little first.

He planted himself in a spot in the sand to study it. He considered Bertha, Antonio, then Florian, because one of the black spots on its forehead looked a bit like a flower. He didn’t know what gender it was, and had no idea how to tell. Not that it really mattered. He reached for his journal and set the fish into his lap, pulling the pen out from the journal’s binding to write a quick recap of his day so far.

_Breakfast/lunch: Ice cream!_

_Spent the day in Southsea. Got to have some ice cream from a handsome vendor - very exhilarating! Even though I’m sweating like a fucking pig. Had the chance to have a nice walk around the place, and as if that wasn’t enough excitement, I also went on a bus ride! Played a ring toss game and won - I now own a goldfish!!! Really cool! I’m excited. I was gonna get him a friend but I think it’s too late now. I need to head back lest John give me a black eye. I’ll need to get a tank and some stuff for it. Some fish food. I’m sure I can get them on the way back home. I don’t know what to call him yet, but I’m sure it’ll come to me._

Then, ‘Bernie’ came to mind.

It was gender-neutral, and it was perfect. And it’d be funny to show Bernie to his namesake. He scribbled down ‘Bernie,’ drawing a smiling fish next to it.

He got up and continued walking, looking lovingly at Bernie again as he headed back towards the path, brushing past a small child as he made his way up the steps.

“Woah!” The little boy held onto the rails.

“Oh, dear. Sorry.” Elton stopped, steadying Bernie and looking down at the little red-haired boy staring up at him. “Didn’t see you there. How clumsy of me.”

The boy winced in the sunlight before holding a hand up as a visor.

“Are you Elton John?”

Elton hummed in pretend thought, then chuckled. “Haven’t heard that one today.” He placed a foot on the next step, before looking back at the boy who was still expectantly looking at him. He ducked down. “I am,” he added quietly, “just not today.”

The boy’s scrunched-up, freckled face didn’t alter, so Elton wished him farewell, telling him to go and find his mother, before running up the remainder of the steps, Bernie held close to his chest. He headed back in the direction he supposed he’d came.

He walked briskly, and the closer he came to where he believed the theatre to be, a film of unease began to settle on top of the ice cream in his stomach, increasing with each stride. John, likely, was not going to be as thrilled about his outing as he was. In fact, there was absolutely no way.

+

He recognised the front of the theatre on a street corner and strolled inside past the Rolls-Royce he’d arrived in. Immediately, he was met with the back of John’s head. He promptly turned around, probably as a result of the expressions on the people’s faces he was talking to, including Lauren and Nina’s, dramatically shifting from conversational to something that was a cross between confusion and worry, as Elton waltzed through the doors.

John’s already stern expression changed into an even steelier one as Elton tepidly made his way towards him.

“What’s up?” Elton tried, half-hearted smile trailing one side of his mouth.

John stepped closer, face snarling like a vicious dog’s as he grabbed Elton’s upper arms, shaking him roughly. “What are you talking about? Where were you?” His eyes dropped to Bernie. “Where’d you get the fish?”

“I just went out the back,” Elton said, clutching Bernie tighter to stop him from being battered around. “I just, I just went for a walk.”

“A walk?” John barked. “Since when is that something you care to do?” He shook him again. “You were gone for two fucking hours. I told you to be ready in fifteen minutes. Where did you go?”

John shook him again and Elton grabbed hold of his blazer with his spare hand to steady himself. He looked at him, eyes fleeting between him and the onlookers behind him; they all shifted their gazes at the same time, ashamed to have been caught eavesdropping rather than compelled to intervene. Elton’s eyes flicked back, attempting to wordlessly plead with him not to do this here. Not in front of people. Not again.

It didn’t work, because John jostled him again, even more violently, as if to shake a response out of him.

“Stop! Stop it. I just went out. I went out the back and got on a bus, and I went down to the pier down there. I got B— I got the fish… in a game.”

“You got on a bus.” John’s fists furled deeper into the fabric of Elton’s jacket.

“Yes!”

“And went down to the _pier._ ” John scoffed. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“A tour bus,” Elton added, pointlessly. “The ones out there. It took me ‘round the town and I went to the beach. I wanted to get some ice cream.” He looked down at Bernie, who was gasping rapidly. “Don’t shake me, John, please. You’re gonna hurt him.”

John met his eyes, his glinting with malevolence. He snatched the fish from him and tossed it to the side like a water balloon before grabbing back onto his jacket. The bag exploded like one and Elton screamed, body jolting, helplessly watching as Bernie flailed on the tile.

“No!” Elton pushed against him. “Why would you do that? You’re fucking evil, John! Let go!”

John sidestepped closer to the fish. Holding his unwavering stare, he stomped his shoe on top of it with a harsh crack, twisting it like he was stubbing out a cigarette. Elton wanted to yell again, but all he could do was stare back at him, mouth hanging open.

“I don’t give a shit about your stupid fish.”

“I can see that,” Elton squeaked, looking down at his foot. “You cruel bastard… Why would you do that? Why? You didn’t have to do that…”

“Of course you went to get ice cream,” John said. “Selfish pig. That’s all you were thinking about. You can’t do that. You can’t fuck off to the beach on your own, leaving me and everyone else wondering where you went. Idiot.”

“I can do whatever I want to,” Elton said waveringly, trying again to pull himself from his grasp. “I can handle myself, nothing even happened.” He beat his hands on his chest, not trying to hurt him, pure frustration. “And you didn’t need to kill my fucking fish! You bastard!”

“Nothing even happened?” John said quietly, shaking him again. “Maybe not to you, but while you were off gallivanting, we— no, _I_ had no fucking idea where you were. I had to look all over this place for you. Something could have happened to you, you fucking idiot. You can’t go out on your own. Especially without even telling me. Act your fucking age, Elton.”

People were _watching_. Elton sighed, quietly admitting defeat.

“I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are, you f—” John cut himself off, trailing the letter F as he finally let go of him, leaving Elton’s jacket standing rigid. He pointed his finger at his face. “We’re leaving.” He shoved him towards the door. “Go and get in the car.”

Elton kept his eyes to the floor as he shuffled past the other people standing there. John stayed behind for a couple of minutes. Probably to excuse his behaviour, pretend to apologise for his own, and offer to help clean the mess he’d made on the foyer floor. Try to convince them not to speak of this.

Elton watched John leave the theatre through the car window, at him purposefully scrubbing his left foot only on the welcome mat. Elton’s stomach flipped and he shook his head, turning to face the opposite way as John pulled the door open and climbed in.

The car ride back home was quiet. Elton refused to look at him. The drugged elation had died at some point during all of that. Replaced, now, with a descending headache. He looked out the window, trying to fight the overwhelming urge he had to cry.

Back at the house, Elton wandered ahead of him, deciding the day was done. He wanted to go to sleep.

John slammed the door. “What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” Elton shrugged and turned. “What’re _you_ gonna do? Do you want to keep shouting at me? Or, actually, we could take another outing—to the pet shop, if you’d like. There’s plenty of animals in there that you could murder. How about that? Is that fun?”

“ _Don’t_ talk shit to me,” John jumped down his throat, tearing towards him. “If you want me to shout at you—”

“No, don’t.” Elton recoiled and crossed his arms over his face. “Don’t. Sorry.”

“You are _such_ a pathetic idiot.” John almost laughed. “It was a fucking fish. A fucking fish, Elton. Who cares? Grow up. Crying over a fish. Do you know how stupid that is?”

Elton dropped his arms and stared at him, lost for words.

“Do you?”

“I’m not crying.” Elton strained, fighting the restriction in his throat. “But you didn’t need to kill it…”

John wasn’t listening. “ _Do you?”_

Elton nodded quickly. He didn’t think it was stupid. John didn’t need to kill him. But it was easier to agree.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Don’t call me an idiot, John…”

“You’re an idiot.” John reinforced with a sharp finger. “You could have got mauled out there on your own. But you—you, being the fucking _jackass_ you are, you thought it was perfectly fine to go out and head to the fucking beach to feed your face. Without even telling me. And now you’re more upset about the fact I killed a stupid fish, than the fact you had me fucking worried sick about you.”

Overwhelmed, tears spilled over. “It wasn’t just the fish.”

“What else was it, then?”

“I was wanting to have some fun,” Elton mumbled. “I know it’s stupid, but it was a spur of the moment thing. I just felt like doing something I don’t really get the chance to do.”

“There’s a reason,” John said. “There’s a reason you don’t get to do stuff like that. You know, I struggle to understand your fascination with common people, Elton. You should feel glad to have the life you’ve got. Do you not remember what it was like to be like them? _They_ don’t even want to be doing what they’re doing. They do it because they’ve got nothing better. You’re not like them. You shouldn’t want to be. You made the decision to be who you are now, and honestly, it makes me question sometimes whether you deserve what you’ve got. You don’t appreciate it.”

“Drop it.” Elton threw his head back, willing himself to stop crying. “I’m sorry, alright? You don’t need to keep going on about it. I get it—I’m an idiot. Leave it at that.”

“I do have to keep going on, because you don’t actually understand how fucking stupid you are. Look, if you had’ve gotten recognised, people started saying, ‘Hey, look. That’s Elton John over there.’ Then what would you have done? You wouldn’t have had me to help you. You would’ve got fucking swarmed. What would you’ve done?”

“I know!” Elton shouted exasperatedly, then turned, pacing away. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” He set a foot on the stairs, gripping the banister. “It was stupid, I’m stupid, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I better hear that piano if you’re going up there.”

Elton curled his fist tight. Painful. “Yes, _sir_.”

“I’m fucking serious. And I hope your trip was worth it.”

He took a deep breath, then spoke below it. “It wasn’t.”

“Going to make yourself sick from all that _God-awful_ ice cream? Or is it a binge-eating kind of day today? I’m not sure. You always change things up, don’t you? It’s hard to keep track.”

 _Fuck you. Shut the fuck up. Fuck off_ were a few of the options that sprung to mind.

Elton shut his eyes as he trudged up the stairs, alternatively murmuring, “Leave me alone.”

He sealed himself in his bedroom and slumped face-first onto the bed, letting go of a long, monotonous groan. That was what he got for trying to have a good day. That was what he got for eating two ice creams—he should have given one to that girl at the ring toss game. That was what he got, period. For existing.

He lay for a moment, unmoving, before grovelling up the bed to the telephone on the nightstand. He held his hand above the receiver, letting it hover there as he contemplated.

Would Bernie even want to talk? He could be busy. He mightn’t care.

He dropped his hand onto the phone anyway, dragging it over to his ear as he spun the numbers around. Bernie’s phone number, no matter where he lived, was always the only one he could ever remember or recite by heart, perfectly.

He waited, listening to the tone droning on and on. Eventually, it beeped.

“Hi.”

“Bernie. Thank God—”

“If you’re hearing this, it means I’m not here to take your call at the moment. Uh, probably busy. Rock and roll, and all that. But please, feel free to leave me a message, and I’ll get right back to you as soon as I can.”

It beeped again. _Fuck_. _Great_. _Just fucking great_.

Elton gave a disgruntled sigh, hearing his own breath flutter through the speaker into his ear, before clicking the phone back onto its base.

“Fuck sake.”

His arms folded then unfolded. He lifted the phone again, redialing his number.

“Where are you?” he muttered, placing the receiver back to his ear. “Where could you possibly be right now? Come on. Come _on_.”

Again, the phone beeped, then replayed the same pre-recorded message.

“Come on!” He clacked the receiver back down before it had a chance to finish.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say to Bernie. He couldn’t say why it felt so urgent. He just needed to talk to him. Now that he couldn’t, he rolled over to sit on the edge of the bed. He let go of another sigh, shoulders unhunching. He pulled his journal from his bag, opening it to the last page he’d written on. Still crying a little, he glanced over it before tearing it out and crumpling it into a ball, throwing it across the room.

He brought himself to his feet, slowly walking towards the small record player that sat on a table by the window. He lifted the albums that were sat on top of it, flipping through them. Usually, he was very particular about them—his records—always making sure they were properly stored in his record room downstairs. His music was his pride and joy. But in times when his mind was all over the place, his care for them also tended to follow suit.

He picked out The Beatles’ ‘Rubber Soul,’ placing it onto the turntable and pinning the arm. As the album started playing, he flopped back down on the edge of the bed, staring at ‘The Green Waterways’ painting on the wall. He got up and changed the album after hearing ‘You Won’t See Me.’ Some of the lyrics managed to weasel their way into his brain, increasing his aggravation.

He didn’t hate Bernie. That would never be possible. He was aware that Bernie had other responsibilities, he was even aware that Bernie didn’t rely on him as heavily as he did on him. Bernie would never be hanging on the phone, desperate to talk to him in order to avoid losing his mind. He didn’t hate him, but he did resent not being able to talk to him when he needed him. It engulfed him with indignance that clenched his fists and stiffened his legs. He fucking _needed_ him.

He opted instead for ‘People Like Us,’ The Mamas & The Papas. He moved the needle to the beginning of the record and turned the volume up a few notches, making sure it would be audible from outside the room, acting as a ‘don’t disturb’ sign as well as a sound barrier for what he was about to do next.

He stood in its presence as it crackled to the start, the dreamy intro to the title track lulling through the speakers. He stood there for its entire three and a half minute duration, before going back to sit on the bed while the second song played. The perkier, light-hearted tune that he couldn’t remember the name of right now, poured through the speakers, and he felt insane. His feet shuffled restlessly on the floor, his hands gripped the sheets.

He hated that John was going to be right, yet again.

When the serene melody of ‘Snowqueen of Texas’ lilted through the air, he rose to his feet again with a determined, melancholy-driven triumph, making his way across to the bathroom. He left the door open to allow the music inside and crouched in front of the toilet, taking his glasses off to avoid a second pair’s demise, setting them safely on the tile.

He looked into the bowl and coughed, his stomach already sensing it; familiar with the routine, but out of sync enough to not be able to do the rest on its own. His eyes watered. He pushed two fingers into his throat, lurching forward and spluttering. He paused, then pushed them in again, forcing them further down, finally causing a small surge of white liquid to pull itself up from his guts. He spat, forced his fingers in again, and more slime spatted into the bowl like a hideous confetti, complemented with shavings of chocolate and sprinkles.

_I’m on my knees, your majesty,_

_Snowqueen, save a cold kiss for me._

He hunched over, continuing to impel his stomach into vomiting up the remainder of the only thing he’d consumed all day, fingers now clutching white at the rim. Even though it wasn’t a lot, it was satisfying knowing it was no longer inside of him. A different kind of vomiting than that of the other day. This kind was rewarding, albeit shameful at the same time, hence the loud music.

He clung to the toilet for a moment, coughing and attempting to spit the stale, sour flavour out. He slumped back against the tiled wall, limbs slacking, now-empty stomach reeling. He listened to his breath catching on its way in and out, the loudest thing besides the lullaby-like music. He shut his eyes.

_She’s living in a cool, green farmhouse,_

_If you go to Houston,_

_Be quiet as a mouse..._

He stayed lying against the bathroom wall until the album stopped, humiliation preventing him from opening his eyes. A few moments after the arm clicked back into its starting position, he peeled himself off the floor, flushed the contents of his stomach, and went to the cabinet to shake a few more painkillers into his hand. God, he would have preferred cocaine. He had to make a call sometime soon. Or get John to do it. Fuck. _That prick_.

He swallowed the pills with a refreshing gulp of lukewarm, vomit-tinged tap water, then made his way back to his bed, throwing himself on top of it, awaiting the impending comfort of feeling very little, or preferably, nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The link for the Pinball scene is only for interactive/entertainment purposes. Again, not affiliated with me or this story. Also, if you didn't click on it, it's fine. Watching it is not compulsory for the storyline to make sense.  
> Song quoted in this chapter was Snowqueen of Texas by The Mamas & The Papas. I don't own it.


	7. Hand In Hand Went Music and the Rhyme

+

Elton woke up to light-headedness. And John at the foot of the bed, arms folded, holding the same aura as a menacing demon.

“What are you doing?”

Elton grunted, rolling over as he followed the initial sound with a series of additional grumbled responses, face submerging in the pillow.

“Elton. What’re you doing? Are you going to get up?”

“What time is it?” his muffled voice asked.

“After eight. It’s the same day.”

Elton looked up at the window, and then the clock. He seemed to be telling the truth.

“Get up. You haven’t done anything for this album yet. You’re wasting so much time.”

“Yes, I have, actually.” Elton perked up, voice still rusted from sleep. He stretched his limbs into waking then propped himself up on his elbows.

“What have you done? When?” John squinted dubiously. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have, would you? I came up with some _ideas_ ,” Elton said, dangling his legs over the edge of the bed. “Earlier.” He slid to his feet, moving to the door, then stopped and turned back, hand on the door’s handle. “You know, while I was off gallivanting.”

He slipped out. John trotted behind, hot on his heels.

“What did you do?”

“I came up,” Elton said, twirling to walk backwards and face him, “with some tunes. A good heap of them. Wrote ‘em all down.”

“Where?”

“Never you mind.” He jaunted down the stairs then turned to walk backwards again, watching John jogging down after him. “See, I wasn’t just parading around, John. I was working. And you were shouting at me for it.”

Elton tapped his finger on the side of his head, lending a complacent smile, then pivoted on the ball of his foot, headed towards the kitchen. John followed like a shuttle.

“Have you got talking to Bernie yet?”

“No.” Elton reached to the cupboard, pulling out a tall glass. “I haven’t.” He lifted a nearby bottle of pink grapefruit gin and held it up, examining it for no other reason than to appear cultivated whilst pissing John off, then sploshed it into the glass followed by a healthy dollop of tonic water. He raised his glass in a flourish dramatic enough to irritate. “Have you?”

The veins in John’s neck bulged for a split second. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Classy. Is that one for me?”

“Piss off, is it for you,” Elton scoffed, sipping at it. “It’s mine. A little evenin’ drink.” He smacked his lips and sighed, relishing.

“Ah. Sorry, I assumed you were having the bottle.”

Elton shot him a deflated expression, taking another drink. “Fuck off. And I don’t _need_ to hear anything from Bernie. He’s coming, that’s all that matters.”

“Ring him.”

“No.”

“If you don’t—”

The buzzer by the front door went off. Both men looked towards it like deer caught in headlights.

“Hello? It’s me. Sorry it’s so late… Can I come in? I know the code, but I don’t really want to barge in…”

_Bernie._

Elton and John shared a glance before they both hurdled towards the door. The only reason John beat him to it being that he hadn’t a drink to steady.

He buzzed him in. The gates were audible cranking apart outside, then his truck, and moments later John was letting him in the door, greeting him with a stiff handshake.

“Bernie. So good to see you. How are you, mate? Wonderful. We were just talking about you.”

Elton watched on from behind his glass. He could see straight through John’s inauthentic kindness towards him. Straight through.

“You were?” Bernie said, stepping inside with a pull from John’s hand.

“Yes!”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry for just… showing up like this.”

“Oh, not at all.” John smarmily clapped another hand over his. “Perfect timing. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thank you very much.”

Bernie immediately looked around. His eyes lit up when they landed on Elton; he rushed to him, arms spread out.

“Reggie!”

“Bernie.” Elton gave a perfunctory smile, putting his arms around him, lifting his drink overhead. “How are you?”

Bernie squeezed him. “Good. I’m good.”

He pulled away, the happiness on his face deteriorating as his eyes fleeted over Elton’s face. His eyebrows drew together quickly, just for a moment, like they were trying to say something.

“How about you?” Bernie returned softly, sliding his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah.” Elton’s hand grazed the bruises that must have been visible on his face. The make-up had faded. _Shit_. “I’m fine,” he replied bluntly. “All good.” His eyes dropped to the easiest distraction—Bernie’s bag. “Planning on staying a while?”

“Yeah.” Bernie’s eyebrows nipped again. “Is that… alright? I thought that was the plan. Stay, get this album sorted out.”

“Two weeks,” John chimed in from the background, two fingers held up as he circled to stand at the other side, by the stairs. “Two weeks to get the _whole_ album sorted.”

“I remember, John,” Elton said cheerfully, face falling flat again afterwards. “Anyway, yes, of course. You can stay as long as you want. I was just… just making sure that was what you wanted to do.”

 _Just making sure you know what you’re getting into_.

“Sorry I didn’t say to you,” Bernie said. “I should have given you a warning.” His eyes panned to the glass. “Instead of dropping in on you.”

“Don’t be silly, you don’t need to do that. I’m glad you’re here.”

Elton smiled, and Bernie returned the expression, covering up the wariness still obviously painted below.

“So, you got things sorted back at home pretty quickly,” Elton said, wanting to shift things swiftly on. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“Oh, yeah. A lot quicker than I thought, which is good, isn’t it?”

Elton nodded carefully, sipping. “Reputable enough?”

“Seemed so, yeah. Good references. I’m happy enough.”

“Let’s hope the place isn’t turned upside down when you get back.”

“I’d like to think not. No, I think all’s well, safe as houses. Both of them seemed really nice, too, knew what they were doing. And it’s only for another few days until Joe gets back, so…”

“Have you heard from him?” Elton asked, thinking about how Joe had completely slipped his own mind. “Either of them?”

“No. No, I haven’t. Hopefully that’s a good thing.”

Elton wondered if the reason Bernie hadn’t answered his phone call earlier was because he’d been preparing to come here. The dormant feelings about it faded completely. That had to be it. “I’d say it is,” he said. “I think if he was in dire straits, he’d be straight on the line. He’s having a fabulous time, neck-deep in sand with Irene. Calling somebody back home would be the last thing on my mind, too.”

“You’re right… Oh!” Bernie dipped his hand into his pocket, remembering something, rooting around for a minute before pulling out a tiny earring and presenting it. “Another thing, almost forgot. You left this at my house. Noticed it the other day.”

“Thank you,” Elton said, taking it from him and slipping it into his own pocket. He hadn’t any more mind of that, either. He pressed another smile. “Wondered where that was.”

“Couldn’t have that going missing on you.”

“You’re right. Cost John a lot of money.”

Bernie nodded hastily, eyes trailing over to the other man still loitering, then to the floor.

“Oh, here, look at this, too.” He remembered another thing, suddenly, reaching into his breast pocket this time and pulling out a photograph. “Check it out!”

Elton cracked a genuine smile, taking the photo from him to get a better look.

It was of his telephone, or else an exact replica, happily pinned back to its place on the wall.

“Your phone!”

“They were able to fix it,” Bernie said. “Isn’t that cool?”

“Yeah. So cool you had to take a photo?”

“Yeah, man! I had to show you.” Bernie leaned to look at the photo and pointed. “You can’t really see there, but it’s got little cracks in it. But that kind of makes it look cool.”

“Gives it—”

“Character,” Bernie finished. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. It’s kind of like that Japanese art tradition I told you about a while ago. You know, when a piece of pottery gets broken, people seal the broken pieces together with gold? It looks awesome. Now, so does my phone. It’s not got gold gluing it together, but the idea’s still the same. Pretty cool.”

John wasn’t tapping his foot impatiently, but he might as well have been. The energy he was exuding was similar to that of when you know someone’s watching you, but even more serrated and pointed.

“Yeah.” Elton gestured backwards to the stairs and handed his photo back. “Come on. Let’s go. Set your bag down. Maybe get started on some things. I have a few tunes I already came up with, actually, we can see what we can do with them. Well, _if_ we can do anything would probably be a better phrase.”

“Really?” Bernie’s face brightened again and he lugged up his bag. “You rarely do that. In fact, I don’t think you ever have. Okay. Sure, let’s see.”

Elton and Bernie made their way upstairs one after the other, brushing shoulders with John who was still standing at the base. Elton lent him a passing smile. One that said ‘Happy?’ but also ‘I told you.’ Fucking told you.

“What have you been up to?” Bernie asked, obviously hiding the struggle of hulking his bag up a fleet of stairs, obvious from his voice’s strain. “Haven’t spoken in a little bit.”

“Oh, not much,” Elton said absentmindedly, opening the door to his room. “Throw your bag down anywhere, we can shift it later. Or someone can. I don’t know.” He floated inside and flopped into the ruby chaise at the end of the bed. He took a sip of his drink, watching Bernie fix himself on the piano stool backwards. Elton hummed, remembering, swallowing the sweet liquid. “Oh, you know what I did today!” He fluttered his wrist outright. “I completely forgot. I played a role in a scene for The Who today. They’re making a film.”

Bernie laughed, and if he’d had a drink, he would’ve been trying not to spit it everywhere.

“What?”

“Yeah!” Elton’s mind trailed back to Bernie’s lack of a drink. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask if you wanted something to drink… Would—”

“I’m good. Tell me about this film! What the hell?”

“I was a Pinball Wizard. Sorry, _the_ Pinball Wizard.”

“That’s crazy,” Bernie said, eyes wandering the walls. “So, what? What was it? Was it, like, a music video?”

“No, it wasn’t a music video. Not entirely sure what it was, honestly.” Elton cocked his leg onto his knee. “Some sort of film. That’s all I could gather. I didn’t see the whole production though, just the scene I was in. Total madness, we need to watch it when it comes out.”

“Obviously.”

“They let me keep the outfit,” Elton continued, jumping to his feet again, swigging the rest of his drink down and setting the empty glass by his feet. “Look.” He went to his bag, pulling out the hat, shirt, and trousers, the _scarf,_ chucking them all over the bed.

Bernie laughed, eyeing up the props. “That’s great.”

“Isn’t it? Wait ‘til you see the shoes. They were too big to take with me, so they’re sending them over. You’ll shit yourself when you see them.” Elton reached into the bag again. “Oh, and there’s these.” He whipped out the glasses, holding them up over his own like a masquerade mask. “Cool, aren’t they?”

“Very cool,” Bernie agreed, a subtle dullness evident in his tone of voice this time.

Elton dropped the glasses onto the bed. “What’s the matter?”

Bernie looked at his hands wringing like he was trying to think of a way to put his next thought.

“Is it my face?” Elton asked, before he had the chance to be the one to bring it up. “Is that what it is? Are you wondering what happened?”

Bernie looked back at him gravely. “What happened?”

Elton sat down on the chaise, wondering if he should admit the truth to him. He pinched the fat on his thigh, turning it like he was turning the decision over in his mind.

“Nothing,” he opted, brushing at his reddened skin as if wiping away lint. “A few days ago, I just… slipped, and I— I fell down the stairs.”

Bernie stared.

“What?” Elton said defensively.

“You fell down the stairs.”

“Yeah, I slipped, and I fell. Very clumsy of me. But I’d had a few drinks, so. And you know me, I bruise like a peach, Bernie. Fruits tend to do that. You should know about that, you horticulturist, you.” He laughed at his own joke then added, “Looks like I’ve taken a real beating, doesn’t it?” He laughed again, though Bernie still didn’t share the reaction, his face remaining humourless.

“Must have been a right and nasty fall… He didn’t do it?”

“What, John?” Elton reached for the glass at his feet, only re-realising its lack of gin when he had drawn it to his lips. He set it back. “No. No, don’t be silly.”

Bernie raised his eyebrows, as if saying, ‘There was nothing silly about what I asked.’ And there wasn’t.

Elton sighed, glancing towards the door, making sure it was shut.

“I promise,” he lied in a hushed voice. _Promises really must mean jack shit coming from me_. “He didn’t. I’d tell you if that was the case… He’s smacked me around before—” he allowed, breathing another laugh that Bernie didn’t reciprocate. He swallowed, regretting it. “But he’d never do something like that to me. He wouldn’t.”

“I’ve seen how he is with you,” Bernie said, in a similar muted tone. He leaned closer, elbows resting on his patchwork knees. “And, judging from the things I’ve _seen,_ I can only imagine what he’d do when no one’s around. So, you can see why I’d think that, can’t you?”

Elton hummed supposingly.

“How have things been, anyway?” Bernie asked. “Between you… and him.”

Elton huffed out a prolonged breath. Bernie at least deserved the partial truth.

“He’s just— the same as he always is.”

“So, a dick?”

“Pretty much,” Elton laughed, and Bernie breathed one of his own this time, though a little dispassionate.

“He’s been, you know…” Elton scratched the side of his head then reached for the glass again, having to stop midway, reminding himself. He shrugged, fixing his hand back to his hair. “Shouting a lot…”

Bernie’s face turned sombre again. “About what?”

“All sorts,” Elton said, rolling his eyes. “One thing after another. The album. Me: you know, unable to do anything right. The usual.”

Bernie offered a smile, and, as always, his sweet smile, albeit sad, maybe sewn by pity, managed to soothe some of the pent-up concoction of negative emotions that were buried, collected there over the last few hours and couple of days.

“Do you wanna know what else I did today?” Elton asked.

“What else did you do today?”

“I was in Portsmouth, right? For The Who thing. And, after, I went out and just… walked around for a bit. It was fun.”

Bernie barked out a laugh. “You went out? How? Where’d you go?”

“I snuck out the back and went down to the pier there. It was really nice. I just wrapped a scarf around me and no one was the wiser. Except this one little kid, but it was fine.” Elton earned another laugh from Bernie. He continued: “I went and got ice cream and played one of those ring toss games, you know the— I walked along the beach… John was fucking livid, but it was fun. Worth it.”

“That’s insane!” Bernie was shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh, man, I bet he was. I wish I could’ve come. Did you win?”

 _Did I win? Most certainly not._ Then he recognised he was talking not about the day in general, but the carnival game.

“Of course I did,” he replied triumphantly. “I won a goldfish. I named him Bernie. Well, it. I don’t know what gender it was.”

“That’s nice. And you named it after me?”

“Yeah, well, it could be Bernie as in you, or… Bernadette, as in… Bernadette.”

Bernie laughed again, looking around the room. “Where is it? Downstairs?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Elton said, looking at his feet swiping the rug. “John was so pissed off at me for leaving without telling him, he fucking killed it.”

“ _Killed_ it?”

“Yeah.” Elton hushed his emotion in case John was eavesdropping on the other side of the door. “He fucking threw it on the floor of the theatre, and stood on it.”

Bernie shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. As he said, it was just a stupid fish.”

“That doesn’t matter. That’s fucked up. And kind of scary, honestly.”

Elton nodded minimally. “He made a whole scene… He was shouting at the top of his lungs and shaking me like a ragdoll in front of everyone there. I was fucking mortified.”

Bernie said nothing, nonplussed, just kept looking with the same horrified expression.

“He didn’t hit me,” Elton stressed. “He was just being… aggressive.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bernie said bluntly.

“Yeah. And embarrassing. And then to top it off, he killed my fucking fish! And made fun of me for being fucking annoyed about it.”

“At least the people there would’ve seen how insane _he_ was. Not you.”

“Yeah. I was excited, though, to have a fish.”

“Aw.” Bernie pouted. “We can always get you some fish.”

Elton shook his head. He didn’t want just any fish.

“Nah, he’d probably put bleach in the water. Or cyanide in its fish food. The crazy fucker.”

“Probably,” Bernie said, moving to sit next to him. “And, if it makes you feel any better, Bernie might’ve died anyway. Funfair goldfish always tend to die early.”

Elton appreciated the sentiment, though he knew that wasn’t necessarily true. His grandmother told him about a fish she’d won at a fair when she was a child. Maisie. And Maisie lasted 11 years.

“Only if they aren’t looked after properly,” Elton said. “The girl running the stand was nice… I’d say she took decent care of them. I would’ve taken care of him.”

_Like you would._

Bernie wrapped his arm around him, giving him a gentle and comforting squeeze. He didn’t say anything for a while, but he didn’t need to. Being there was enough.

“Well, hopefully me being here will deter him from acting like a dick to you.”

“Hopefully.” Elton rested his head on Bernie’s shoulder. His hopes were low. “He got me this, though. Look.” He held his hand out, showing off the glittering butterfly on his finger. Then he pulled the necklace out from the depths of his dressing gown. “And this.”

“Hm. That more than makes up for it, I guess.” His voice was more than laced with sarcasm; he took Elton’s hand, swivelling it. “Is that what they are? ‘I’m sorry’ presents?”

Elton shook his head. “He got me these before all of that.”

“Right.”

There were a few moments’ silence before Elton continued on another note, peeling himself from him.

“Do you wanna hear the tunes I wrote?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Elton got up, fished his journal back out of his bag, and settled at the piano in the corner. He flipped through the pages, recognising the one he wanted to play from the drawing next to it, setting the tiny book up on the stand like a sheet of music.

Bernie walked over, took a glance at the page, and laughed.

“Those don’t look like music notes,” he said, pointing at the badly-done scribble of a horse.

“They are prompts,” Elton said eloquently, stifling laughter. “To help me remember what I was thinking of. I haven’t read or written out music like that in ages, Bernie. Give me a break. It’s not easy to remember.” He snorted, pointing at a tiny thread of notes he’d jotted close by. “There is a few, though, look.”

“Sure. Do you not mind that I’m in the room? Normally you’re shooing me away, then calling me back in once it’s finished.”

“Not at all. There’s a first time for everything. This must be one of ours.”

Bernie sat back down. “Well, go ahead. Take it away, maestro. I’m ready.”

Elton shifted closer, straightening his back. He held his hands over the keys and paused. “Now, this isn’t a— It’s not an upbeat thing. It’s quite subtle. But it’s got its moments. It’s adorable, you’ll love it. I’ll shut up. Okay. Just listen.”

Bernie, respectively, stayed quiet, but kept grinning as Elton began playing the modest melody he’d invented that same day. Hearing it back as an actual piece of music and not just from his brain was gratifying. It flowed exactly how he’d imagined. He played for around five minutes before stopping, clapping his hands to his thighs and looking to Bernie, who was still smiling back at him.

“I love it,” he said, slow, thoughtfully. “It reminds me of something I wrote.”

“Really?”

Bernie nodded, going to his bag to fetch a batch of loose papers. He pulled out one, setting it next to Elton’s journal.

Bernie’s handwriting was a soft scrawl, one that resembled a heart rate monitor: only lifting to form words, only breaking if a new line was needed. Another thing so admired by Elton, especially considering his own was, more often than not, nothing more than an unrefined block capital print.

“Captain Fantastic,” Elton began, reading the title slowly as he leaned in to make the words more clear. “And the Brown Dirt Cowboy.” He grinned up at Bernie. “Me and you?”

Bernie bit back a smile, nodded.

Elton gasped. “Are you _fucking_ kidding? That tune I played, I wrote that with you in mind, too.”

“Really?” Bernie parroted his level of excitement and surprise. “I was going to say it reminded me of, like, the old west. Cowboys and stuff. Life, just chugging along like that…”

“Yeah. That’s what the horse was for.” The smile on Elton’s face played harder. “Who’s who?”

“I think you can tell.”

“I can,” Elton jested. He held his tongue between his teeth and readied his hands above the keys, humming through the tune. “Let’s see…”

He started to play his song, creating an intro, all the other instruments filling themselves in in his brain. He cleared his throat and sang. Sang about ‘Captain Fantastic,’ Bernie’s supposed version of him, his mouth curling with the thought he was actually referring to himself. Then about little dirt cowboys turning brown in their saddles, _‘sweeee-eeet chocolate biscuits,’_ and _‘red, rosy apples in Summer…’_

He automatically liked that line a lot, and sang through the rest of the story, tying it together neatly at the end.

He stilled for a moment, then looked at Bernie.

“Wow,” he whispered, genuine astonishment. “That was… fucking phenomenal.”

“Enough to make you swear?” Elton asked. “Fuck me, must be good. That’s a rarity for you.”

“Yeah, man. I loved that! That’s a _good_ song.”

“It is. I like it a lot, too, actually.” Elton paused, suddenly thinking of something. “That’s what we should call the album.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s great… It’s _great_.”

“I don’t know how you do that, Reg,” Bernie said. “It’s crazy, I can never get my head ‘round it. How you can come up with stuff like that, and— and put it all together.” He pushed out air, blasting his fingers from his temple. “Madness.”

“Thank you.” Elton allowed himself the compliment, slanting to the side in place of a bow. “But the lyrics are my favourite part of it. Truly. I’m in love with them.”

“Thanks. I like them, too. If I do say so myself.”

“Say so. You need to quit being so modest, dear, I wanna hear you fucking scream that your stuff’s good.” Elton tapped a merry jingle along the left side of the keys. “Hey, I’m on a roll here. Gimme another one.”

“Hell yeah!” Bernie swung his clenched fist downward. Then, rifled back through his wad of papers. He slid another one in front of ‘Captain Fantastic,’ claiming he thought it’d be more upbeat. ‘(Gotta Get) A Meal Ticket’ was the title, and to Elton it didn’t seem very cheery, but glancing over the lyrics, he saw what he meant. He flipped forward in his journal and pinned a tune to it. He took a moment to extract the music from the hieroglyphs he’d written, allocate the melodies in his mind, then started cranking out another tune, hitting on the keys with a lot more fervour and groove than the last song, doing just a little improvisation this time, and belting out the lyrics written in front of him.

They were both extremely impressed with the outcome, and went straight into another one. And another, and another. Doing so left Elton in much higher spirits that made him forget about all the bollocks the day had brought him. Bernie seemed equally as elated.

After getting each as good-sounding as possible—not perfect, nothing was ever perfect—they decided they’d made enough headway on the album, which now even had a name, to call it a night.

Bernie left to sleep in a guest room down the hall, while Elton climbed into his own bed, awaiting the creak of the door that signified John had decided to sleep with him.

It never came.

+

Two more days went by, and in that time, they had managed to cook up a few more tracks for ‘Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy.’ They collectively decided Elton should rework The Beatles’ ‘Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds’ and slap it on the album as well.

It was coming together.

Elton had a newfound inspiration, something he hadn’t felt in quite some time. He even phoned up the graphic designer Alan Aldridge, who had worked on things for The Beatles’ albums, to ask him to come up with some album art. Elton described the concept of the album, which was, as far as he could tell, about he and Bernie, and allowed him the freedom to do what he liked with it. Aldridge said he’d be happy to do it, and would send over a copy of whatever he came up with as soon as possible.

Slowly, but surely, coming together.

In the first full day Bernie spent there, John had kept his snide remarks and hands to himself—in every sense of the phrase. The latter being both a blessing and a curse. It not only stopped Elton from suffering at his hands, but also prevented any kind of pleasure. Whether the reason really was because of Bernie’s presence, Elton didn’t know. But it had been a double-edged sword.

While the first bunch of songs had came relatively easy to both of them, Elton eventually hit a bit of a snag in the road. Not as a result of a creative block, so to speak, but because John had finally given up on his criticism purge that he’d somehow kept up for an impressive almost-24 hours.

Both men stood in the kitchen, John venting tirelessly about how he and Bernie weren’t working fast enough to be able to get a record out on time, that the songs he’d overheard them doing weren’t all that great, and that it all came down to how lazy Elton was, all while Bernie sat in a neighbouring room, likely overhearing _everything._

Elton held his hands up as if trying to reason at gunpoint, voice low. “Can you please stop yelling?”

“I’m not yelling at you. You’d know all about it if I was yelling. And you’d have more things to worry about than your boyfriend overhearing if I was.”

“Oh, shut up, John. Why’re you doing this? _You_ are my fucking boyfriend. You. How many times do I have to say that to you? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous of Bernie. For some fucking reason. I have no fucking idea why. We’re _working_ , like you’ve been begging me to. I don’t know what more you want.”

“Not jealous.”

“Oh, no?”

“No. More… distrustful. Of you.”

Elton snorted. “That’s rich.” He watched his face harden. He turned away, backtracking. “No, don’t fucking start. Don’t fucking start, I don’t want to get into this with you right now. In fact, not even right now, I don’t want to get into this, period. I hate when you do this.”

“Get into what?”

“I fucking _hate_ this,” Elton wheezed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Of course he fucking did.

“No… Can’t think of anything?” John pouted his lip with false bewilderment. “Tell me?”

“You _know_ what I’m talking about. You have no reason to be distrustful of me, I’ve been nothing but loyal to you. Not _once_ have I fucked someone else or even contemplated it.”

“Uh, do rent boys not count?”

“Shut the fuck up. No, it doesn’t count if _you_ are the one who paid them. And joined in.” Elton inhaled deeply, resisting all urges he had to lose it. “Listen, I’m done with this conversation. It’s stupid, and you’re trying to make me feel bad, for what? Having a friend? Doing what you asked me to? I’m not allowed friends now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s basically what you’re saying.”

“No, it’s not.”

“And if that’s the case, do I get to dictate what you do, too? Only seems fair. Or, should you sit in with us? You know, just to make sure we’re not fucking shagging on the piano!”

“Calm down.”

“No! No, you’ve— you’ve pissed me off now.” Elton paced the length of the room, then came back to him. “You _always_ do this. The fucking cheek. When I have been nothing but loyal to you. _Nothing_.” Desperation and dejection seeping into his voice, he attempted to fight against it. “Not once have I went and slept with someone else while being with you, not once, and we both know… you can’t say the same.”

The heated words hung in the inflamed air; Elton was worried about what he had possibly done, but tried to appear undaunted, keeping himself in the other man’s space.

“You’re insane,” John stated simply.

Relieved from being braced for something terrible, Elton’s shoulders slacked. “Maybe I am.”

“You are,” John insisted, calm and collected, a far cry from how he’d been acting not five minutes before. “Look at what you’re doing, for God’s sake. You’re digging up all this shit from the past, from _years_ ago, that I was under the impression we had _dealt_ with and moved on from… just because I told you that you should be getting more work done if you want to save yourself from extra stress. I only ever try to help, and you—”

“You know something?” Elton shut his eyes, attempting to release the rage boiling inside of him in any way other than an outburst. “It is pretty damn hard to write songs when your _boyfriend_ is telling you he’s distrustful of you for spending time with your fucking lyricist.” Fists clenched by his sides. “Which is what you fucking _wanted_ me to do. You didn’t shut up about it for days. You were _begging_ me for days. Make up your mind, John. And telling me my songs are shit? I really fucking like this album, but the way you get on, you know, it makes me want to quit doing anything and sit on my ass instead. Just to fucking spite you. You’re making me bitter over fucking nothing. And you can’t stop criticising me, even when I’m doing what you want me to. It’s like it fucking hurts you physically to say something positive.”

“Calm down.”

“No. That’s— fuck you.” Elton flurried in a circle, not knowing what to do with himself. He wanted to hit his own head against a wall. He wanted to smack John in the face. But he couldn’t do that, of course. And the ruckus it would cause would drag Bernie into it, which was the very last thing he wanted.

He forced a breath to rise and fall heavy in his chest, the muscles in his arms knotted tight, unable to relax unless he did something. Something.

His eyes scavenged the countertops. A sliver of evening sunlight making its way through a window reflected off a knife on the cutting board. He snatched it, frenzily pressing it to his arm.

“I am going to slit my fucking wrists. Right now.”

John’s eyes dropped to the knife. He snickered. “Are you?”

 _“Yes,_ you fucking idiot,” Elton growled, pushing the metal further into his skin. “Right fucking now. I can’t cope with this, you’re driving me fucking mad. I’m gonna do it.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you’d do it.” John tilted his head to one side. “I do doubt, though, that it’s going to be possible with a butter knife.”

Elton’s mouth gaped. He glanced down at the piece of cutlery he was pressing so intensely into his skin, grip on it loosening. It was a fucking butter knife.

He berated himself in his mind, then seething with a surge of resentment for both John _and_ himself now, he drew it away from his skin, since it wasn’t giving the desired effect.

“I don’t give a shit,” he said. “I can still gouge my eyes out with it.”

John almost rolled his. “Are you finished? You could really be using this time to write.”

“FUCK _OFF_ ABOUT WRITING! Will you? God, just leave me alone. I’m sick of this.”

Elton let the knife clang to the floor, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and stalked out of the room. Bernie quickly lifted the book that had been sitting cover-up on his lap.

John followed at his own leisurely pace. “What do you want from me, Elton?”

“What do I want from you?” Elton turned around, his mind whirring with thoughts.

Understanding? Empathy? _Anything?_

“I want you to fuck off,” he said curtly, knowing Bernie was a few feet away, now bearing first-hand witness, if such a thing was needed. “I want you to fuck off and let Bernie and I do things the way we want to. We’ll get it done without you fucking standing over us.”

John didn’t say anything, and Elton took off up the stairs.

He didn’t know whether Bernie was following him or not, he hoped he wasn’t, considering what he was planning. He needed some form of aggressive release, something that no amount of smacks to the head, pills, or whiskey could have given to him. It had to be destructive in a way that he could not only feel, but see.

He went to his bedroom and stood staring at the top drawer of his nightstand. He rummaged through it, past the empty pill bottles, loose sheets of paper, pens, his journal, until his fingers met with cold steel, then peeled it carefully from the wood. He lifted the razor, examining its edges that were coated with a mixture of dried blood and traces of old cocaine. He didn’t bother rubbing it onto his clothes, and didn’t consider running it below the tap. The coke could add something favourable to the experience.

He went to the en suite and locked the door. He set the razor blade on the sink and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, looking briefly at the angry streaks the butter knife—the fucking butter knife—had left. Part of himself, which was fixed firmly in the back of his mind, hated what he was about to do. He hadn’t done it in ages. But he didn’t care to listen. He lifted the razor and firmly pushed its corner into the flesh of his inner left arm and trailed it downwards, watching the skin tear, leaking a stream of blood that trickled down his arm and dripped onto the floor. It stung, only briefly, before the pain converted to adrenaline. Hand jittering, he made another sawtoothed slice in his skin.

“Fucking hell.” He teetered back and forth on his heels, savouring the sensation.

A knock at the door jolted him out of his peaking elation, causing the razor to slip from his fingers and clink to the blood-spattered tiles, and panic to set it. He crouched to lift it back up, strategically grabbing a black towel and switching the tap on to override the sound.

“Who is it?” he called, then threw the towel over the mess on the floor, swiping it in vigorous circles that only smeared it.

“Me.” Bernie’s voice, through the door. “Are you alright?”

“Yup.” More blood rolled off his arm onto new parts of the floor. “Fuck,” he whispered. He dampened the towel and returned to his hands and knees. “I’m fine, Bernie. I’ll be out in a second.”

“Right. I’ll be… here.”

The shadows below the door backed away. He vigorously swiped the rest of his blood up, then threw the towel into the bath and unfurled a load of toilet roll, dabbing it to his arm. The tissue stuck to the wounds in places when he pried it off. He hissed and pulled his sleeves back down, retying the ribbon on his dressing gown and holding it together for extra security. He ran his fingers below the tap to remove the traces of blood that had backfired, then lifted his bottle of whiskey and casually made his way back out.

Bernie was stood in the centre of the room.

“Everything okay? What were you doing?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” Elton said cheerily. “He’s a fucking cunt,” he added, taking the cap off his whiskey then drinking. “But I’m fine. Great, even. Just had to take a quick shit.”

Bernie held out his hand as if to push that information back, and laughed. “Didn’t need to know that part.”

Elton shrugged, marching past him to perch himself on the chaise. “You asked me what I was doing in there.”

Bernie shook his head, then sat next to him.

“I wrote a song, just there… Overhearing you two, it gave me a bit of inspiration.”

“Oh, great.” Elton bellowed an explosive laugh. “What’s it called? Queers’ Quarrel? Faggots’ Fracas?” At the same time, he wondered how much he was actually able to hear. His hands became clammy against the bottle.

Bernie uncrumpled a piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to him. “No, it’s not called either of those. Here.”

“Ooh.” Elton took another hot swig of whiskey as he read the title and glossed over the body of lyrics. “Bitter Fingers.”

“Yeah. Parts of it came to me as you two were fighting. But it’s also about, like, the early days. When people didn’t give a shit about any of the songs we were making. Nobody wanted them.”

Elton immediately stood up and walked to the piano.

“I like that,” he said, setting the paper up.

He thought for a second, lifting his whiskey to neck a couple of gulps of it as he scanned over the lyrics one more time. The subtle fire in his throat rivalled with the rising burn immersing his arm, though the alcohol’s effects kicking in began to smother it, like a wet pair of fingers snuffing out a candle.

He danced his fingers across the keys, concocting a charming yet powerful intro, keeping it going until he eased it out, settling it in time to start singing. He listed through the first portion, building it up then discovering that the main chorus that talked of so much to prove—so few to tell you why; a change really being needed; no more long days hunking chunks of garbage; and of course, writing songs with bitter fingers, was actually a foot-stomping number. The whole thing was a shit-hot rock and roll record.

“That’s a fucking record!” Bernie shouted, giving a little jump like a rabbit. “Dude!”

Elton gave a humble nod, reaching for the bottle again.

“Did you just come up with that,” said Bernie, eyes widening as he spoke, “or was that one from your book?”

Elton unplugged the drink from his lips. “That one was completely improvised. There now. Made of _pure_ anger.”

“Well, let’s hope you can remember all these. We should be recording them, they’re really good. We’re taking this album down one song at a time!”

Bernie held his hand out for a high-five, and Elton didn’t leave him hanging despite the pull in his arm.

“We can start recording them tomorrow,” Elton decided. “I’d probably be able to remember them, but we can do quick recordings, just in case I don’t.” He laughed a little, took another drink. “I’m quite happy with that one, it’s good.”

“Yeah. It’ll keep him happy, too.”

 _Yeah_. _Hopefully_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted in this chapter was Captain Fantastic & the Brown Dirt Cowboy. I don't own it!


	8. If You Ask How I Am, Then I’ll Just Say ‘Inspired’

+

Pushing his rediscovered earring back through his lobe, Elton recalled the day John gifted it to him.

It was the early days of their relationship, when things were still vibrant and exciting. Certain occasions still called for Elton’s heart to race the way it did then, but rarely for the right or the same reasons. John had introduced him to a lot of things. Meeting him had launched Elton headfirst into the gay scene, the truly rich culture. Running parallel with the thrill of his first real relationship, it was quite literally a whole new world, teeming with excitement and dynamic opportunities.

Elton had never fallen into the same mindset as his parents. Even before he knew he was part of the othered party, he never could understand why people like both of his parents had this lack of empathy regarding people who weren’t exactly like them. A complete and unapologetic unawareness. Realising he was gay when he was around thirteen, he still couldn’t see the problem they did, but often found himself feeling some sort of… not outright guilt, maybe embarrassment was the right word. _Squeamish_ whenever anybody brought the topic up, as most people loved to do. Including his parents. Because people loved debating about it as if gay people were a quirky dinner table topic. Whether it was right or wrong, acceptable or not. Whether they should exist.

John was the first person he’d ever met so comfortable and open with their society-deemed ‘obscene’ sexuality, and after _fully_ embracing his own sexuality and wanting to outwardly express so, John suggested the earring. He taught him that it was a custom, a form of code, to pierce your right ear so that other gay people knew you were gay too, without you having to say it.

Except he wanted to say it.

But dangly ones, like the one he was looking at now in his reflection’s ear, a silver cross on a chain, were his preferred means of conveying it out of the limited options he had. It was louder.

After eating nothing but or since the two ice creams from his Southsea Escapade two days before, Elton finally gave into the hunger, allowing himself a rather large bowl of Rice Krispies doused in sweetener and a glass of vodka flooded with orange juice. A fiery and needed kickstart.

Bernie sat adjacent to him, having a platter of toast and jam to himself, and a giant cup of tea, nothing but tea. John was occupied elsewhere. Out of sight, out of mind.

After their breakfast at 12pm, after breaking away to vomit half of it back up, Elton spent a few hours recording rough copies of the songs they’d created in the last couple of days. Just like he promised. Bernie said he’d written a few more lyrics at his house that they could also try to work with, and they did, making a few more album-worthy songs.

The next song they started to work on was called ‘One Day At A Time.’

“This is John Lennon’s,” Elton noted, setting the sheet back on the piano.

“Yeah, but I just really like the song… I thought you could do a good version of it.”

Elton read over the words in front of him again briefly, and his face flushed red and overwhelmed. Even though he knew Bernie didn’t write them, he related to it as if he had. He wasn’t sure where Bernie was coming from with suggesting _this_ song and his mind whirred with ideas. Why would he want to put it on the album? This one, in particular. An album that, from Elton’s understanding, was supposed to be about the both of them: _their_ relationship and shared experiences. Was he was reading too far into it? Or was it supposed to be from Elton’s point of view, another form of funny joke? If so, that was on the brink of being mortifying.

Or, was it for him? Platonic, of course.

Elton gently patted his clammy fingers along the keys, nerves tickling his stomach as he began to sing the lyrics.

 _“You are my weakness…”_ His stomach clenched the butterflies there. The following lyrics were altered from the original. _“You are my friend.”_

He could feel Bernie watching.

_“When we’re together, or when we’re apart… there’s never a space in between. The beat of our hearts. ‘Cause I’m the apple, and you’re the tree.”_

That was exactly how he felt. That was exactly what they _were._

He giggled, looking at his best friend, whose own smile deepened. He continued to sing, fingers tinkling over the keys, butterflies dancing inside of him, before they suddenly stopped, disintegrating mid-flight.

_“You are my woman…”_

Elton’s eyebrows knit together as he tried to make sense of it. He knew the song was about a woman. It was _about_ Yoko Ono. But it still took his hope for a surprise. Bernie had altered one of the lyrics, why wouldn’t he have done something with that one?

He cleared his throat, composing himself while keeping his head low, and sang on.

It definitely wasn’t for him. If it had’ve been, Elton didn’t expect him to make it _clearly_ about another man, they’d never get away with that—but he didn’t have to allude to the gender of the other person at all. If it had been about him. Which it wasn’t. He was stupid to think that in the first place. Even entertain the notion. He mentally thanked fuck he didn’t make some sort of tongue-in-cheek comment.

Bernie was straight. Even if he hadn’t have been, he never would have been attracted to Elton. Or anyone like him. But especially not him. Elton _knew_ that already. Of course it was for a girl. More specifically, his girl. Juniper.

She was on and off him more frequently than his boots. They had the occasional tiff with each other. He knew this not from Bernie telling him about it—Bernie kept personal matters personal—but from overhearing them the odd time. But arguing meant nothing, of course. Elton knew all about that. And Bernie had known her since they were kids.

Clearly, Bernie wasn’t really thinking along the same lines for this album. And despite that, the rest of the lyrics still stuck to Elton, every scenario told holding some sort of resonance to him as he sang them, ignoring the clench in his throat. It was a mere coincidence that some of it made sense. Because they only made sense to him. A depressing coincidence. It was just a song. A song that Bernie had suggested because he liked it, and thought he could do a good version of it. Nothing more.

Finishing, he passed a severely lopsided smile Bernie’s way.

“That was beautiful,” Bernie said. “I knew it.”

Elton lifted his bottle and drank. “Yeah. Guess you did. Thank you.”

+

As if the spiteful universe hadn’t already proven how much it wanted and needed Elton John to be miserable in the last four hours, it decided to give him another swift kick in the face.

“Let me see anything you make out of those while I’m gone,” Bernie said, letting go of Elton’s arm as he wedged himself out the door. “I’ll be back later tonight. If that’s alright.”

Bernie was going to see Juniper. They were going to have dinner at some beautiful, fancy restaurant. Talk about the stars aligning, and kicking someone when they’re down.

“Yeah, of course. And take your time. I’ll be up, probably. I’ll let you in.”

“I won’t be late,” Bernie said. “See you.”

“See you later on.” Elton contrived a smile as he watched Bernie skip down the steps. “Have a good time.”

“I will,” Bernie called back, and Elton stepped forward, slamming the door shut and letting out a furious growl from his throat, fists shaking at either side of his head.

“Have a good time,” he repeated, mocking himself. He cracked his knuckles against his skull. “Idiot.” He trailed himself away from the door, head in his hands. “Of course he’s going to have a good time. He’s not with _you._ You’re the one who’s not gonna have a good time.” He slapped his hand back against his head, cursing himself. “You. Not him. Eugh.”

“Having a crisis, are we?”

Elton drew a breath, swinging his hands away from his face. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Looked like you were in a bit of a quandary there,” John said, tracing a finger along the grand back of the sofa, as if checking for dust. “Why’s that?”

“I wasn’t, I was—” His thoughts were convoluted. “It doesn’t matter what I was doing. It’s none of your business.”

“Is he away to see his girlfriend?”

“Yes. So? That doesn’t affect me, I don’t care. I’m just annoyed because I wanted to get more work done.”

“Sure.” John slid onto the sofa. “I heard him say he left you a few lyrics. How’s him going out stopping you from getting any work done?”

Elton was taken back a little. “I meant both of us. Together.”

He ran a hand through his hair. He knew he was scuffing it up, but he did not care. Like he didn’t care a minute ago, hitting his own already-bruised head. So much for them healing.

“And who said you could listen to my conversations, John? You need to mind your own business.”

“Your business is automatically my business,” John said. He said it so conversationally. He really believed that. He wasn’t saying it to get a rise.

“What makes you think that?” Anger burned another hole in Elton’s stomach. “You’re my manager, not my keeper. You manage things for me, John, that’s it. That doesn’t mean you have any entitlement to every-fucking-thing in my fucking life.”

“Watch it,” John chastised. “Don’t take that tone with me. I’m also your boyfriend, remember?”

“You are also—” Elton walked across to swipe his second whiskey bottle of the day from the coffee table, punctuating with a grin. “An asshole.” He scampered away like a kid testing his luck, making his way down the hall, calling back, “And being my boyfriend still doesn’t mean you’re entitled to listen in on my conversations. Dick.”

“You look like shit,” John said, making sure he was getting that last stab.

“Shut up.”

“You look like shit, Elton,” John sing-songed. “You drunk bastard, you’re disgusting. You look like shi-it. You’re a fat piece of shi-it.”

“Shut u-up.” Elton mirrored his tone, continuing to walk away.

John started to shout something back, but Elton yelled, stretching the note to block him out.

He made it to his destination without being hijacked from behind and possibly slammed against a wall. Which was a plus. Though if it had’ve happened, he would’ve taken it lying down. This day couldn’t have made him feel any worse in the first place. And what difference would a few more bruises or cuts make?

In the depths of his fuzzed train of thought, lulling mellowly, almost eerily, as if from a black pit, The Beach Boys’ song ‘In My Room’ swam through. He hummed along to it.

His record room wasn’t really a room. It was a full basement, basically a small house, complete with multiple chambers and hallways plated with his own gold records. He had enough space to live down there if he really wanted to.

_In this world I lock out all my worries and my fears…_

When that line rang in the silence of his mind, it rang partly untrue. While you could of course shut the door, you could only lock it from the outside. He almost switched routes to head to the en suite off his bedroom instead, but remembered it could be unlocked from the outside with a key which sat dust-covered on the dresser, so that was no use either. If locking the record room from inside was possible, he definitely would have lived there.

He pulled the cord to switch the lights on, his pride and joy illuminating.

The room had a certain musk to it—a meld of that record sleeve smell and fresh paint that never seemed to fade from the room’s decoration. The sight of his records in rows of shelves lining every square inch pleased and comforted him in ways nothing else could. Nothing came close. Not drugs, definitely not John, not even Bernie, could make him feel the way his collection did. Just looking at them could remind him of happier times, like the moment he purchased them; memories came attached. It was like having stacks of friends.

He’d always sort of believed that inanimate objects had feelings, thanks to the shortage of actual friends he had growing up. It started with a plush Peter Rabbit toy that he’d take everywhere with him. Then, when his father took that from him and dumped it in a quarry because ‘big boys don’t carry toys,’ it transferred to records and they became his new obsession—at about age five. And he still felt that way. Which, he supposed, was why he put so much effort and time into caring for his records. And anything he cared for. His possessions were his friends, in some ways. And they hadn’t got the ability to hurt him, in any way. Being surrounded by them felt so secure, so warm, like he was being enveloped in a large quilt, fresh out of the dryer.

He sat himself on the floor by the tiny record player he kept down there, cross-legged, and began raking through the albums in the wall, sifting out some of the ones he wanted to listen to into an orderly half-circle around him. The Beach Boys, Bob Dylan, The Beatles, Leon Russell, Queen. He put them on in order, listening to them without singing along while getting rightly through his bottle of whiskey.

He did have actual friends. He had Bernie, obviously. He had other people. Freddie Mercury was a good friend, to name one. John Lennon, another. Rod Stewart. Marc Bolan. He loved them all, and knew that they loved him. But he didn’t see them on as regular a basis as he would have liked. Everyone was permanent to him in his mind, yet he was permanent to no one.

He made it through all of the albums he’d picked out and shuffled back to file them away in their correct places, then moved to another wall, searching through and amassing a new horde to listen to as he got himself even more drunk. After successfully doing the latter, his entire bottle of booze gone, the final vinyl he chose to listen to was the latest single by 10cc, ‘I’m Not in Love.’

He carefully shifted the record player onto the floor for easier access and placed the 7” into the turntable, then lay down in the small amount of space he’d allowed himself among the record covers and sleeves, head right at the speakers.

Bernie was like his latest obsession. Had been for the last eight years. Except he wasn’t inanimate, and Elton couldn’t have him all to himself. With a soft whimper, he realised this. And with his eyes scrunched shut, as tight as he could make them, he felt ashamed.

He didn’t have anything against Juniper, she was lovely. Bernie loved her. She loved him. Elton didn’t hate her. He really, really didn’t. But he was definitely jealous of her. He could admit that, even though it stung, to himself. He was jealous of her, unjustifiably, because he really did want Bernie all to himself. He knew it was unreasonable, wrong, so he held back on voicing it. It didn’t help the fact. He was pretty sure Bernie could tell anyway. Damn it, Bernie knew rightly. And unlike him, she deserved to spend all seven days of the week with him.

Her nose was petite and perky, and between her moody grey eyes, high cheekbones, and everything else, it wasn’t hard to see why Bernie was so crazy about her. Bernie was head over heels for Marilyn Monroe, he had been since he was a kid, and he got the next best thing. She was beautiful. Bernie referred to Juniper on more than one occasion as his ‘own little Michelle Phillips’ of The Mamas and the Papas, and she adored the comparison, always asking, ‘Who is it you say I look like, again?’ She did resemble her, a bit. Fair hair resting past her shoulder blades; elegant long legs; effortlessly, almost heavenly beautiful. Even her name, her birth name—Juniper Bright—was imposing.

Elton hated being around them together. Not only did it involve strong, awkward feelings about playing gooseberry, but it made him bitter. Sharply, almost bitingly bitter. Watching them playfully tussle for the remote; Bernie letting her win, then she’d fall back onto him to switch channels; Bernie running his fingers through her hair, kissing the crown of her head so sweetly; dancing with each other in the middle of the living room; wiping icing onto each other’s noses when they baked together. Bitter. They, he, she, had something he had lost years ago. Something he could never have again.

Bernie had to be well aware of all of this. He must have noticed the way Elton withdrew from interaction when they were all together. He must have thought he was insane. No wonder he would rather spend time with her.

Juniper did nothing wrong. In fact, she did everything right. That was what made it bite harder. He wished he had that.

Elton tried and failed to fight the tears that were pooling. He clutched his empty whiskey bottle to his chest like a lifeline, taking the words Eric Stewart lullabied to him to heart.

_I’m not in love,_

_So don’t forget it._

_It’s just a silly phase I’m going through…_

Elton sobbed through the whole song, letting the tears roll down his face and seep into the carpet, soaking his cheek that lay there. He set the needle back to the beginning every time it ended to hear it again and again, crying non-stop. He needed to wallow in his misery for a while. It hurt, but it was the only thing that felt right. It was all he could do.

+

After a while of listening to the same song on repeat and crying until he no longer could do either, he dragged himself from the floor, putting the album back into the slot it came from and setting the record player onto the table, then left with his empty whiskey bottle. Like nothing had happened.

Having a good cry had shifted something inside of him. He still felt like a piece of shit; deflated, tired. But crying had done something for him. He didn’t know how much time had passed. Could have been 45 minutes, could have been hours.

Bernie would probably be back soon.

He went to his room with a new alcoholic companion, a bottle of wine, and rummaged through the sheets of lyrics Bernie had left on his dressing table. One of the titles caught his immediate attention.

_Better Off Dead_

How fitting.

He sat down at the piano and began tinkering with a delightful and hopeful tune, in contrast to the sort of ominous lyrics and how he felt. While he loved making miserable songs with equally bluesy melodies, he also relished in taking miserable lyrics and pairing them with an uptempo beat. Like how he had with a tune called ‘I Think I’m Going To Kill Myself’ on the _Honky Chateau_ album from a few years prior.

He bashed his fingers along the piano, shouting the lyrics to nobody, and like he had done in his record room, repeated the song over and over, getting lost in the song he was creating and tweaking it ever so slightly with each rendition.

“Hey.”

Bernie was poking his head around the corner of the door.

Elton jolted, but carried on where he was, chanting the title of the song countless times as the outro. Bernie hadn’t written it that way, it just happened.

“Sounds like _The Phantom of the Opera_ in here,” Bernie said, shuffling inside, laughing. “Is that ‘Better Off Dead’?”

“How could you tell?” Elton shifted in his seat to look at him. “Did you hear all of it?”

“I heard a bit coming up the stairs.”

“Let me do it again for you.”

Elton turned and sank straight back into playing it, with all the sharpness and acidity from the first few times. He kept the impromptu chant from the last run in at the end—not simply out of feeling venomous, though that definitely helped it hit right—but because it actually sounded really good, a perfect addition to the song.

“Shit, I love that. Really, really good. I love the last part you added yourself.”

“Good, isn’t it?” Elton reached for his bottle of wine, plucking the cap off, taking a mouthful.

“Yeah, man. Did you write anything else?”

Elton shook his head slowly, still taking in gulps of alcohol like he needed it to breathe.

“How was your night?” Bernie asked. “Mine was pretty good. We went to that restaurant I was telling you about, remember? Oh man, it was amazing. We had this really good seafood. You and I should go some time.”

Elton replanted the bottle to his lips, like a plug to stop himself from blurting out how much he really, really did not care to hear about Bernie’s night. He pulled the bottle away with a _thunk,_ then his fake smile widened to a grin.

“Oh, mine was lovely,” he said. “I had a wonderful night. I listened to a few records, relaxed. Then John and I had dinner, it was great.”

“Sounds nice… What’d you have?”

“Well, for starters, we had this delicious, cold soup. Then for the main, John was nice enough to make me reheated toast and beans that he served up on the floor. It was beautiful.” He kissed his fingertips. “Perfect. And then we even had tea from a used teabag that I found outside around the bins. Absolutely stunning.”

Bernie’s expression was twisted, almost unreadable. “What?” he uttered. “Why are you… What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I’m telling you what we did for dinner.”

“Right.” Bernie looked around at anything but Elton. “Well, you’re drunk. And you’re— I don’t know. I don’t know what to say to you when you’re like this, so I’ll just… go. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Elton bowed his head, letting him leave the room without saying anything to make him stay. He knew he was being a cunt, but sometimes, it was hard to stop himself. It was hard to want to.

He lifted the wine from its perch on the piano, feeling the need to bring it, like it had properties of a good luck charm, and followed him to the landing.

Bernie bobbed down the stairs and plonked himself onto an armchair.

“I’m sorry!” Elton scrambled after him and stood in the middle of the room. “I’m sorry for acting like a dick. I don’t… Bernie, I don’t know why I—” He caught himself slurring his words, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bernie softly allowed.

“Forgive me?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause while they both stared; Bernie at Elton, Elton at the floor.

“I didn’t have anything for dinner.”

“Why not?” Bernie asked. His face softened with concern.

“I just didn’t.”

“Are you hungry now?”

Elton paused, taking notice of the way his stomach felt. He nodded.

“Okay,” Bernie said. “Come on, I’ll make you something.”

“ _No_ , Bernie.” He didn’t want to burden him.

“ _Why_ , Reg?” Bernie almost begged, voice somehow remaining gentle.

“I don’t want you to do that for me. You’re supposed to be the guest.”

“Well, I’ve already had dinner, and I assume you haven’t had anything to eat since your breakfast.” Bernie stood. “Plus, I wouldn’t trust you making me anything while you’re this drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Elton half-snapped, like he was talking to someone else. Then he realised that he was drunk. Very. “Okay. Maybe just a bit.”

“More than just a bit,” Bernie said. He nodded to the kitchen, then walked toward it. “Come on. I don’t want you going to bed hungry.”

Elton trudged into the kitchen after him, slouching into the chair that Bernie pulled out for him.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“You’re welcome.” Bernie pushed him closer to the table, then went to rumble around in the cupboards. “What would you like? I’m sure you’ve all sorts here.”

Elton cringed, not listening, glancing at the door. “I hope John doesn’t come in.”

“Why, what’s he done now?”

“Nothing. I just… can’t be assed listening to whatever he’d have to say.”

“I feel that,” agreed Bernie. “Seriously, though, what do you want?” He shut the cupboard doors then turned, resting his lower back against the counter. “I can do you some bacon? Eggs? How about that? Something simple.”

Elton nodded, head feeling heavy yet light at the same time. The curdling weight of the alcohol in his stomach was also letting its presence be known. He took another gulp of his wine, tipping it upwards from the bottom with two fingers.

“Maybe that’s enough,” Bernie reasoned with a tentative laugh. He tapped the side of the bottle.

Elton shook his head, continuing to drink.

“I’d take it off you,” Bernie said, “but I think I’d like to keep my hands.” He reached for a frying pan. “How much have you had to drink today?”

Elton set the bottle on the table. “Not enough.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Bernie cracked an egg, then another. He switched the grill on, and turned back to face him. “You’d drank pretty much all day, you were drinking when I left… And you’re drinking now. That’s a lot of alcohol. Especially with how little you’ve eaten.”

“Yeah, well.” Elton slouched, blinking out of sync. “I feel like shit, Bernie.”

“Why?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Yes, I do, tell me. Tell me what’s wrong. Why do you feel like shit?”

Many things were wrong. Many, many things. Too many. Too many to think of, too many to say. He couldn’t begin to go through them all with him, and he definitely couldn’t tell him about his latest internal conflict. Not now, not ever. He knew anyway, but he couldn’t remind him.

“I’m just tired, Bernie.”

“You can go to bed after you eat this.”

“No. Not like that. Well, like that, too. But I mean, I’m tired. Mentally.”

“‘Cause of him?”

“Yeah. I just… don’t know anymore.” His voice cracked slightly, eyes burning again. He sighed, annoyed to be doing this in front of him again. “I don’t know if he actually cares about me. It’s not the same. We aren’t the same anymore. He doesn’t act like… He doesn’t seem like he loves me.”

“He does,” Bernie said, moving to wrap an arm around his shoulders. It didn’t really help. It made him cry, pressing his face against Bernie’s shirt.

“We don’t even talk anymore…” Elton snivelled. “We used to, we used to be able to talk all the time. Now?” Another rattle of sobbing shook him. “I don’t understand what I do wrong, it’s like he fucking hates me. All I do is cause problems for him. I want all of it to stop, but it doesn’t. It never will. I don’t know what to do. I want things to be the way they were before. Why’s it have to be like this? Sorry.”

“You don’t do anything wrong. Seriously, you don’t.”

“Unless, I’m just that shit to be around.” Elton sat up, wiping shininess from his cheeks. “Or, just the fact I _look_ like shit.”

“No.” Bernie frowned, then turned, tending to the food. “It’s nothing like that, Reggie. You’re not shit to be around, are you kidding? And you don’t look like shit either.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Bernie. Don’t lie to me. I know you are, you can’t lead me up the garden path, you know. Even _with_ all the pretty flowers.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Oh, please. I look like shit.”

“You don’t look your greatest right now,” Bernie said, sliding a mound of scrambled eggs onto a plate with three rashers of bacon.

Elton wheezed, pointing at him. “You cunt!”

“Let me finish.” Bernie set the plate in front of him. “You don’t look so hot right this second, but that’s because you’re drunk, and you’re sad. And you were, or are, crying.”

“I’m always fucking crying.” Elton rubbed at his eyes. “I’ve been crying all day.”

“ _Why?_ Wait, let me get you a fork.”

“Fuck a fork,” Elton said, lifting a piece of bacon with his hands, then he shoved the whole thing into his mouth. He hummed, reaching for another, this time piling egg on top.

“Why were you crying all day?”

“Well, not _all_ day, but I was crying,” Elton began, still chewing. He swallowed, then shoved the next heap into his mouth, then waited until he finished it before speaking again. “Because I’ve been fucking sad. Nothing more to it than that.”

He didn’t want to lie to Bernie, but he also couldn’t find the needed vulnerability to open up to him fully. Even while drunk. It was like a layer of concrete hardened over his skin, preventing his emotions from escaping.

He scraped the rest of the food off the plate and shovelled it into his mouth. His stomach was starting to feel full. It was anything but contenting, but he craved more.

“You must’ve been hungry. Do you want some more?”

Elton nodded, reaching for his wine.

“What made you sad today?” Bernie persisted as he returned to cooking. “Or, was it,”—he swivelled the fork in the air—“only because of the relationship troubles?”

“There’s that,” Elton said. “But that’s a constant. The sky’s blue, John and I fight like cat and dog. That’s… the way it is. The problem is he can be so mean sometimes. Like, we can argue, that’s tolerable, that’s expected. But then sometimes, a lot of the time, he’s just fucking mean. He’s a mean person. He called me fat today.”

“No, he didn’t,” Bernie gasped.

“He did. He called me fat and said I looked like shit. He’s always doing stuff like that, I shouldn’t be shocked by it. It was one of the first things he said to me when I got home. And it’s true, but it still fucking hurts. I don’t say shit like that to him. Even when I’m mad. Although, I don’t really have the same amount of things to pick apart about him.”

“I can think of a few,” Bernie said, and slipped more bacon and eggs onto his plate, sprinkling them with salt and pepper.

Elton laughed at his quip. “Thanks.”

Bernie’s smile said he was welcome, then he sat down, too. “And you’re not fat.”

“Right.”

“You aren’t…”

Elton made the mistake of looking up at him from his plate. If he had’ve been completely blackout drunk, without a single shred of sense left, Bernie’s face alone could have been enough to make him believe his words. Instead, his own lips quivered. From witholding another violent crying outburst, from being overwhelmed, from disgust with himself.

Bernie was definitely able to sense now was not the time.

“You need to talk to him,” he said. “Sit him down, tell him how it makes you feel. If he cares about you, he’ll stop doing that to you. A bit of bickering is normal, that kind of stuff isn’t.”

“No.” Elton winced at the thought. He ate quickly.

“No, what? No, you won’t? Or, no, that won’t make him stop?”

Elton wasn’t sure. He shrugged meekly, continuing to eat.

Bernie gingerly brushed an unruly strand of hair back from Elton’s forehead, then stood again to throw his arm back over his shoulders.

Elton contently leaned against him.

“You can always talk to me about these things. You know that. Don’t be keeping it all in. We can talk about anything to each other. Anything.”

“I know,” Elton murmured, looking up at him. “Thanks.”

Bernie hopped up to sit on the counter while Elton drunkenly scooped food into his mouth. They were silent for a considerable amount of time.

“I want to cut my hair,” Elton eventually said. “I know I haven’t got any, but what I do have looks terrible. I just want to cut off _these_ parts.” He pointed to the long strands at the back. “They look dreadful. I look like someone’s dead granny.”

Bernie snorted, looking at his watch. “It’s only ten,” he said. “Do you have any scissors? I’ll snip them off for you.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah! Right now. Let’s do it, it’ll take two seconds.”

“John made a whole, big deal of it the other day. It was the day I did the thing for The Who. I was just complaining about it, and he was like, ‘Get the hair and make-up people to do it for you.’” He did his best Scottish old lady’s voice to replicate John’s, making Bernie laugh. “And I wasn’t going to go in there and do that. ‘Can you cut these little, tiny pieces of hair for me before we do this, please?’ They’d think I was a tit.”

“I’ll do it for you now.” Bernie leapt down and trailed the drawer open. “It won’t be a five-star cut, ‘cause I’m not a hairdresser and these scissors won’t be for cutting hair, but it’ll do. Just a little trim. Where do you keep your scissors?”

“They should be in there,” Elton said. He had no idea where they were. He stood up, walking over to the tiny record player by the fridge. “Let’s get some tunes on for Bernie’s Salon.”

“Oh, great.” Bernie grinned, brandishing his newfound pair of scissors.

Elton pushed the needle onto the record already sitting in there. Another 10cc single. ‘Life Is A Minestrone.’ It had been in there for weeks, apparently. The last time he’d listened to it was way before his break at Bernie’s, when the pair had sat at the table much like they were doing right now, eating in the middle of the night and drinking.

“Oh, _love_ that. Yeah.” Bernie tapped the back of the chair. “Alright, come on. Take a seat at Bernie’s Salon.”

“I’ll sit…” Elton scanned the chairs before hoisting himself up onto the edge of the table, legs dangling over, barely touching the floor. “Up here.”

Bernie laughed. “That makes things a bit awkward, but hey. Sure.”

“How does it? Look, I’ll sit like this.” Elton swivelled, back to the end of the table, tucking his knees close to his chest. “So now you come behind,” he continued, and Bernie brushed against his back. “And there you go!”

He smiled up at him, the top of his head to his chest.

“Alright,” Bernie said. “Now, if I fuck this up, please remember tomorrow that you _wanted_ me to do this.”

“You won’t fuck it up.” Elton flapped his hand. “Just do it.”

Bernie made the first snip, and they both giggled like kids.

“Oh, jeez,” Elton jokingly lamented.

“No.” Bernie made another cut. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

Elton noticed his shirt had ridden up a little, exposing the soft folds of his tummy. He casually sucked his stomach in, disguising it as a yawn while pulling his shirt back down with his grease-slick fingers. He swiped them against his leg, then hugged his knees tighter to keep his shirt pinned down. Bernie wouldn’t say anything about it. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t notice, or stop it from being embarrassing.

Meanwhile, between the snips of scissors, Bernie swayed behind him, singing along word-for-word, flat and out of tune. Elton laughed at him, occasionally chiming in for the background parts and funny voices.

“Be careful,” Elton jokingly scolded. “If you slip up and scalp me, I’ll be taking your hair off you to make a wig.”

Bernie burst out laughing, continuing to dance behind him like a wannabe Elvis.

“Don’t worry,” he said, snipping off a couple more hairs. He exhaled a stream of cool air over the nape of Elton’s neck, then swept any extra hair off his shoulders and proudly announced that he was done.

“You’re done?” Elton touched the ends of his hair tenderly. “Shit. Well, I can’t be bothered going to look now, but I’ll look at it in the morning. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bernie said. “Any time.”

+

Elton made his way to his bedroom. If John was there, he was going to try to talk to him. If he wasn’t… it could wait.

He slipped in through the door. John was there, sprawled on top of the bed, arms crossed behind his head. Music was playing lowly from the record player, Neil Sedaka’s ‘All Time Greatest Hits’ album was perched on top of it. Elton smirked, recognising ‘The Diary.’

“Hello,” John said, smiling dreamily. “What are you doing up here?”

“I’m coming to bed.”

“Done having fun with Bernie for the night?”

Elton nodded, looking at his reflection in the dresser mirror. His hair looked pretty good.

“C’mere.” John patted the space beside him.

Elton walked over and sat by his feet, not where he tapped.

“Did you notice my hair?” Elton asked quietly, playing his fingers through the side of his significantly shorter locks.

John stared at him.

Elton swallowed. “Bernie cut it.”

John gave an inattentive nod followed by silence.

“What do you think?”

John nodded again, eventually saying, “Nice.”

Elton shifted, sliding his hands between his thighs, clamping them there.

More silence, while his mind worked overtime.

“What?” John pulled the far edge of the duvet back, beckoning him inside. “Are you not getting in?”

Elton tried to sum up what he wanted to say.

“Uh. Can we talk first?” He gauged his reaction to the question.

John’s brow wrinkled. “Okay…”

Elton drew a breath, releasing it noisily. He pulled his hands from his thighs, fumbling with the butterfly ring on his finger for a moment too long.

“Do you love me?”

“What?” John sat up slowly, putting his feet on the floor.

Elton glanced at John, then back to his hands, swallowing past the sting in his throat.

“Do you… do you love me?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m being serious,” Elton retorted, looking at him dismally. “Do you love me?”

“Of course I do. I’ve told you.”

“I know.” Elton rolled his eyes at himself. He was drunk, but he was still coherent enough to hate the patheticness of what he was doing. “But sometimes… I don’t know if you do. You’re always angry at me.”

“Don’t be stupid. You know I love you.” He jabbed his finger at the ring Elton was spinning around his. “What did I get you that for?”

Elton cleared his throat. “To remind me… you love me.”

“Exactly,” John said, moving closer, arm touching Elton’s back. “Sure, you get on my nerves the odd time…” He laughed, trying to transfer it to him. It didn’t work. “But that’s how relationships are. It’s superficial. I do love you.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“No.” John huffed another laugh. “God. You’re like a big baby. You’re so needy, it’s outrageous.”

“Just wondered. You said I was a disgusting piece of shit earlier. A fat, disgusting piece of shit.” Elton hummed a laugh of his own, arm instinctively snaking itself around his middle. His glistening eyes looked John in his. “You didn’t mean that? Or any of the other times?”

“Don’t be silly,” John drolled again, pressing his face against the crook of Elton’s neck. He kissed his skin, hoisting him backwards, on top of him. He pinned his arm across his chest, holding him in place. “You know I love you.”

Elton stared at the ceiling, hoping he wasn’t as crushingly heavy as he felt. “You don’t think I’m disgusting?”

“I don’t think you’re disgusting.” John kissed his temple, then the top of his head. “Do you think I’d do this if I found you disgusting?”

Elton shook his head. John’s fingers grazed against his arm that was still securely fastened around his waist. He set his hand on top of John’s to try to prevent it from going any further.

John pressed another kiss to the side of his face, then moved his hand where Elton didn’t want it to go—sneaking below his arm, palm flattened on the raise of his stomach. “You know I like my men thicker.” He kissed his cheek. “I like your extra weight.”

Elton’s breath hitched, insides cringing. He attempted to look upwards, past his brow. “ _John_.”

“I’m only teasing,” John purred against his skin, kissing it again. “When I make digs at you I’m only joking, pet.”

Elton rolled onto his stomach, transferring John’s hands to his ass instead. He pushed himself up, reaching to kiss his lips, lingering there, planting another on his jaw. “I love you,” he said.

‘Oh! Carol’ crackled through the speaker, and both men smiled at each other.

John pecked his lips, gripping his ass through his jeans, kneading.

Elton settled his knees at either side of him, raising off him enough to undo his jeans, pushing them down to his thighs and working them off the rest of the way with his legs. He moved back and John kissed him, wet and slow, one hand pushing below the band of his underwear, the other tucked at the back of his neck. 

“Is that what you want?”

Bewitched, Elton nodded, sucking on his rubied lip.

“Okay. Why didn’t you just say that?”

John pushed his thumb into his mouth, and reached back to shut off the lamp. He returned, kissing him, pushing his own underwear from his body while Elton adjusted himself on top of him.

They hadn’t had _good_ sex in ages. Excluding the time in Quicksand. But that was a blur. He could no longer properly judge that.

Now, lying in darkness and post-sex clarity, his own breath racing against John’s, he knew this time must have meant something. Must have. It felt different. Different to any time he could remember from the last few months. Different to any time in the last year, maybe. It felt good. 

Like it used to.

The warmth John had left inside him trickled slowly out onto the bed sheets, but Elton felt a oneness. Unity.

Something changed. It wasn’t just routine. It wasn’t begged for, with words or actions. It just happened. Heat of the moment. It was love. Love.

He must have loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted were:  
> Elton John's cover of John Lennon's song One Day At A Time  
> In My Room by The Beach Boys  
> I'm Not In Love by 10cc  
> I do not own them!


	9. Enough To Make You Laugh

+

The following morning, Elton’s head felt like there was an oversized slab of concrete sitting inside in place of his brain. A regular occurrence these days, always for different reasons—so at least there was some variety. Broke up the monotony. Threw in some spice.

His body ached, his mouth was bone dry. He rolled onto his side, extending his arm to reach the tiny refrigerator that sat beyond his nightstand, prying it open with his fingertips and steadily maneuvering a can of beer out. The greatest solution to any hangover was to carry on drinking. Another spice of life, perhaps.

“It’s half ten in the morning,” John said, reacting instantly to the pop of the pull tab. He rolled over to face Elton, propping his head up with his hand. He blinked like it hurt, watching him guzzling his first few sips down.

Elton tipped the can away from his lips long enough to speak—“What?”—then brought it back for a follow-up drink.

John shook his head, opting to add nothing else.

“I’m not hurting you or anyone else,” Elton said, then sipped again. He was thankful for the liquid, but its effects were not fast-acting enough to truly be satiating in the way he needed. Fuck it. _Coke_.

“Perhaps,” John said.

_Ease into it. Ease into it._

“I was also thinking,” Elton said, “could you get some weed? Please? I’m out. Haven’t had any in fucking ages. It’d be perfect right now.”

John grunted.

“What? Wouldn’t you agree? A nice joint to start the day right?”

John said nothing and stretched his arms overhead.

“I’m only looking a small amount,” Elton said. “And I’ll give you the money, _naturally_.” He watched John’s face remain the same: blank. “What? Will you do it or not?”

“Yes.” John dragged a hand down his own face. “I’ll do it. Are you sure Bernie will be okay with you _smoking_ around him?”

“Fuck me, John, he’s not a Puritan.”

“Right. Well, how much is a small amount? To you.”

“I’ll give you two hundred.”

John hissed a laugh, now holding his forehead. “That’s… not really a small amount.”

“Well, what do you want me to say? ‘Hey. Get me a ten pound bag of weed, mate?’ That would be stupid. It’d be gone in five fucking minutes. Look, I can afford it, I’ve got the money. You’re the one who said I needed to appreciate what I’ve got, so why not?” He took another drink, the can gurgling like a garbage disposal as it emptied. “It’ll do me a while, and not only that, it is a significantly smaller amount in comparison to bags I’ve gotten before. If you don’t, I’ll get it myself.”

John seemed to get the message. He set his feet over the edge of the bed.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Coke.”

John shot him a look over his shoulder. Accusatory, referencing what he claimed he was.

“Just do it.” Elton slit his eyes as he spoke against the rim of the can. “You want me to do work, so…”

“Oh yeah, because coke’s the perfect thing for getting you to do that.”

“Just get me what I’m asking for.”

“Yes, your majesty.” John stood, hands on his lower back as he twisted his spine one way, then the other. “What about the cocaine? I know Bernie definitely isn’t alright with that.”

“Well, you’re wrong. And who cares what he thinks? He doesn’t even have to know.” Elton slowly regretted saying the second half. It made it seem like he _had_ to hide it from him, as if Bernie was his mother. “It’s my house, anyway,” he segued. “I can do what I want. If he doesn’t like it—” He sharply shifted a shoulder. “Like I said, who cares? It’s not like he doesn’t know I take the odd drug here and there. It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, the odd drug. Right. Well, you better hurry up and finish your breakfast. He won’t be pleased with that, either.”

Elton opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, only opening it again to drip the very last few drops of beer in. He threw the can to the floor.

Bernie probably wouldn’t be pleased at all.

Elton brushed that thought away and snared another can.

+

“You don’t seem hungry,” John said. “That’s not like you.”

Elton thinned his lips to a line, biting down on the inside.

He was definitely set on testing him today. That look on his face, that annoying tone of voice. He was set, alright. Dead.

Elton stuck his knife and fork into one of his slices of toast, sawing off a corner and plunging it into the puddle of egg, then packed it into his cheek.

“That’s better,” John said, with a thespian-level of false contentment.

The toast was dry, ashy like sandpaper. Any butter on it had soaked in and dried up long ago. It wasn’t Bernie’s doing, of course. It probably would’ve been nice if he’d started eating it the second it was laid out. But it wasn’t just the texture making him not want to ingest it.

There were just seven days until the album had to be put together. Ready to be put out on sale. It was almost finished, but the customary stress that came with this period was vivid and wasn’t being helped by John’s unrelenting nagging. John was still being an asshole in general. Everything from last night, the talk, what came after, had gone back to meaning nothing. Instant relapse. Naturally.

Plus, Elton would have been more than happy to have the can of beer suffice as his breakfast.

His stomach was cramping, begging him to eat something, but he couldn’t give into it. Despite this, despite what his thoughts said, he swallowed the piece of toast that was already in his mouth like a rock, but left it at that. He had no intentions of eating anything else on the plate.

“You two haven’t got very long left,” John said, like the broken record he was, skewering a sausage onto his fork. He waved it in a circle before dipping it into his mouth and proceeding to talk while chewing. “How much have you done? You’ve barely let me hear anything. How’s it going?”

“It’s coming along just fine.” Elton pushed his own food around the plate, packing it into clumps. The sight of John eating like that was stomach-churning enough on its own any day, but being endured alongside everything else, it was nauseating. He shared a private glance with Bernie. “It’s almost finished, actually. Isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bernie dipped his head into a nod, looking from John to Elton. “It’s almost done. I have a couple more songs, too. We— you could… try them out later. See if they fit.”

“Yeah,” Elton said.

“Well. You should be going ahead and doing it. Now.” John formally dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then leant back in his chair as if it were a throne and he was a king too mighty to be dining with such commoners. “You have to have another one out before the end of Summer as well.”

Elton dropped his fork into the mashed-up paste he’d made. “What?”

John rolled his eyes, then drew out his words. “You _knew_ this, Elton. You knew this. And why haven’t you eaten the food Bernie made you? That’s not nice. He worked hard making you that. He didn’t have to go to the trouble, we’ve got people employed to do that sort of thing.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Bernie muttered.

“Well, it’s the first I’m hearing of it,” Elton snapped, then faltered. “And if it’s okay with you, I’m not that hungry right now.” He glanced at the other man in question. “Sorry.”

Bernie gave a passive shrug. “S’fine.”

“No, it isn’t the first time you’re hearing it, Elton,” John said tiredly. “I told you this. Ages ago. Months ago.” He impaled another sausage. “You obviously hadn’t been listening. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

“So, that’s two albums we’ve got to do,” Elton said, more to himself than either of them, “in the matter of what? Seven days for this one, and then we’ve got a month to make another one?”

“Yes, and you can’t say I didn’t warn you, because I did.”

Elton rolled his eyes and sighed roughly, hands balling into fists on the table, white knuckled.

“So, you’d better get a move on.” John rose to his feet, lifting his plate. “Oh, and the drugs you wanted will be here by tonight. I’m going to lift them at five. Remember, the cocaine? Maybe knowing that’ll help motivate you. Like you said it would.”

“That isn’t what I—” Elton’s own anger cut him off. He grumbled, watching John saunter into the kitchen. “ _Oh_ , you— ARRH!”

He looked to Bernie, who was still forcibly preoccupying himself with eating.

There was silence, except for the clinking of cutlery, while John did what he had to do in the kitchen then made his way out, passing a self-satisfied grin as he made his way down the hall. _That fucker_.

Elton’s toes curled against the limestone.

“Sorry,” he said, unsure of why as the word tumbled out.

Bernie lifted his head.

“Sorry I didn’t eat your food,” Elton continued, pushing his plate to the side with a little too much force. “It’s not the food. I’m just… not hungry.”

“I get it.”

There were a few more minutes of silence. What they weren’t talking about was clear as day.

He had to fess up, even if just a little. But he shouldn’t have to _confess_ anything. It wasn’t even a confession. It wasn’t a secret; he did drugs—everyone did. Bernie knew. Bernie smoked weed. Not all the time, but he did. Elton didn’t do drugs all the time either. Oh, but Bernie didn’t do cocaine… But just because he didn’t take it didn’t mean he had a problem. He’d never voiced any type of objection. Still, Elton wasn’t sure why he felt like he had to acknowledge it. But it was thick in the air, exigent, and it might as well have been talking for him. He avoided looking at him as he thought of something to say. Bernie beat him to it.

“Why are you getting drugs to help motivate you?”

The words came at him hot, even though the pace they were dished out at was slow. They hit like a bucket of boiling water.

“I’m not getting drugs to motivate me.” Elton slanted over the table like a rough change of gear. He pointed in the direction John left. “That’s what he said.” Then his finger shot at himself. “I didn’t fucking say that.”

Bernie’s mouth drew a line. “Have you been drinking?”

Elton’s hands returned to fists. _“Why?”_

“It’s just… I can smell it.”

Elton couldn’t smell anything. “Yes. I had something to drink. Is that alright, mother?”

“I’m only asking… It’s quite early.”

Bernie’s gaze was almost vacant, eyes so dark they were detached, or possibly perturbed.

“Right, and I wanted a drink,” Elton said. “Sorry, I forgot it’s only legal after a certain time.”

Bernie wavered. “Well, why are you getting drugs, Reg?”

“Because I can,” Elton spat. “It’s just weed.”

“He said cocaine.”

Elton stared flatly, an aggravated breath building and leaving.

“Yes. And some cocaine.” He slapped a hand to the table. “Damn it, Bernie, why do you have a problem with everything I do?”

“I don’t!”

“Well, you’re just after having a go at me for _smelling_ like beer.”

“Come on, I wasn’t having a go.”

“Oh, no?”

“No. I just thought it was a bit early, but if you—”

“And I _didn’t_.”

“And that’s fine!”

Bernie’s voice’s brittleness was a telltale sign he was lying, or at least not being entirely open with the things he wanted to say. His entire aura was hesitant. That was clear to Elton. He looked, he spoke, with more solidity when he was being transparent.

“You know I do this, you know I take drugs,” Elton said, reigning in his flaring temper. “And it’s not a big fucking deal. Everyone does it. Can one not have some fun every once in a while? For fuck’s sake. You drink—that’s a drug, you know.”

“I don’t—” Bernie set his cutlery down and threaded his fingers, elbows rested on the table. “I don’t have a problem with it. You know I don’t, Elton, I don’t care if you want to take drugs or not. That’s not the issue.”

“What is the issue?”

Bernie hesitated, fingers bounding off his lip. “The… reason you’re doing it.”

“Do you even know the reason? Do you? It’s not because I need it to motivate me, you fucking know it’s not. That’s _him_ talking. He’s trying to piss me off.”

“Did you talk to him?”

Elton clapped both palms to the table with a crack that made them sting. “Oh, of course I bloody talked to him!”

Bernie recoiled at the harsh clang the cutlery made, not him screaming, then blinked the startled look away.

“Of course I did,” Elton amended quietly. “It didn’t make a bit of difference. It won’t, nothing will. It’s… it’s pointless.”

Bernie sighed.

“Look,” Elton said. “I want it because it helps me deal with him. Helps me get by. Puts me in a better state of mind. Album stress is nothing—that’s fucking fine, it’s him that I need help coping with. He drives me insane, Bernie. You’ve no idea. I’m not doing drugs every day, or just for the sake of it. Yes, it’s a bit of fun, but it’s also _him._ Sometimes it’s nice to have an escape from things. Have some sort of outlet. That’s the reason. Can you understand? Is that so much to ask, to just fucking understand that? Try, even?”

“It’s not. It’s not too much. I get it.”

Elton let go of a long, sighing breath, shoulders untensing. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m not telling you what you can and can’t do, I wouldn’t dream of it. Even if I was, it wouldn’t mean you’d do it.” He laughed unconvincingly. “I’m just looking out for you, is all. Just… friendly concern.”

“Alright. I appreciate that, but you don’t need to be concerned.”

“But I don’t think relying on drugs to help you cope with your relationship is a great thing to do,” Bernie said, some of that solidity surfacing. “I get that, you know, it helps… but it’s not a permanent solution. You don’t want to go… getting yourself into an even _bigger_ problem.”

Bernie widened his eyes, and Elton knew what he meant. He knew exactly what he meant.

“I know that,” Elton said shortly. “I never said it was a permanent solution, I know it’s not. I’m not stupid. I’ve got enough will power to never let anything get the best of me like that. It’s just how I want to do things right now. Bernie, it’s really just a recreational thing. And it just so happens that it can also help me deal with some things from time to time. It’s a win-win. Everyone I know does it. Even John, which is why I don’t understand why he acts like this over it. It’s really no different to popping a paracetamol in your mouth because you’ve got a sore head. Or having a glass of wine to drown your sorrows.”

Bernie nodded gravely.

“That asshole thinks he’s gone and done something that’s going to cause a problem between us,” Elton said while his leg buzzed below the table. “He’s such a fucking shit-stirrer, I can’t stand it. Joke’s on him, though, isn’t it?”

Bernie was still nodding. “Yeah.”

Elton knew he didn’t fully get it, he didn’t expect him to. The look on his face was more than descriptive, still. But the fact that he had admitted he didn’t care if he used drugs or not was good enough for now.

He couldn’t wait to shove it in John’s face.

+

Bernie had a few more lyrics that Elton managed to make songs out of in a matter of thirty minutes each. One of which being a song named ‘Someone Saved My Life Tonight,’ which Bernie said he’d written ages ago, about Elton’s experience with a girl who had developed feelings for him. He, for reasons obvious to himself but not to her, didn’t return the same feelings, but half-heartedly went along with it for a while, perhaps out of loneliness, or as a result of performative, expected heterosexuality. Or possibly both. It was a good song, though.

Another was titled ‘We All Fall In Love Sometimes.’ Skimming over the lyrics as he put a tune to them, Elton, again, was almost certain that the song was about him. About them. The lyrics were so specific. The _‘Did we? Didn’t we? Should we? Couldn’t we?’_ line rebounded off the walls of his mind for ages.

Again, it was just a song. Platonic, at most. Maybe not even that.

Meanwhile, the album should be finished any second, if it wasn’t already. Nine songs was a solid album. The band were called over to record the tracks to an album-worthy and John-Reid-approved standard in the mini recording studio there.

The second part just about passed. It wasn’t a legally obligated part of the process, but it definitely helped things out if he liked it. But John being in whatever bitter mood he was in, swore what he heard was good, not great, and so decided to lend his own expertise.

“Can we get a little bit more piano on there? Like, turn it up?”

Elton lowered his headphones to around his neck, speaking into the mic. “John? Excuse me, hello? That isn’t your job.”

John tapped the glass like he was trying to aggravate fish at an aquarium. “You, shut your mouth.” He turned back to the young mixing engineer who was being swallowed by his domineering shadow. “Can you do it?”

“Well, a-as much as I adore the idea, John, I don’t think that would work? There’s enough piano, it would drown out Elton’s voice if we turned it up anymore. The volume it’s at now—”

John shot his hands into his shirt like a rat clamping its jaw, pulling him forward, almost off the ground, tearing his shirt at the seams. The kid looked terrified. He’d never been at the sharp end of John’s wrath, not in the short time he’d been hired, and it prodded Elton with a secondhand fear that he knew the hands-on experience of all too well. He was thankful there was glass and a door between them, it gave a buffer should John’s anger turn. Watching from the live room, it was like an out of body experience but with the same intensity of watching a showdown between animals at a zoo. Enough to make the hair on Elton’s arms and back of his neck stand on end.

John’s face was inches from the kid’s face as he yelled: “Do it. Do it right now!”

Everybody who had been on the receiving end of it before remained motionless. Nobody reacted, nobody tried to stop him, they all turned the other cheek. Which was the correct thing to do if you didn’t want your own shirt torn off you. Nigel, Dee, Davey—all of the band had their eyes on the floor. Bernie was looking Elton dead in the eye, as if he could do anything. There was little he could do at the best of times, but John had been drinking, meaning he was even more untameable. A beast you didn’t want to challenge.

“Just turn the piano up,” Elton offered, and something gave; John let go, and the kid fell to his usual height. Elton stepped out of the booth. “Turn it up, alright? If it drowns me out, who gives a fuck? Do it the way he wants, do whatever he wants with it.” He headed to the door. “I’m out. Good luck, you’ll need it.”

The only good thing John had to contribute to anything all day was the news that the marijuana and coke had arrived.

Elton slinked off to the bathroom to try to expel the mouthful of toast and egg he’d eaten earlier. He was certain all of it hadn’t resurfaced, but nothing more was giving and he’d been standing there for at least twenty minutes. He spat and wiped his mouth, then went to get his first fill of the good stuff—as promised, the two almost-matching in size bags of both cocaine and weed sat on his nightstand like an ornament and potted plant. He opted for a few spoonfuls of fine China. But not long after that, he, John, and Bernie shared another meal together, another that Bernie insisted on making, and the only things on his plate Elton allowed himself, or rather, could bring himself to eat, were a couple of forkfuls of side dish peas.

He felt like he was wired to the moon and the way his fingers were drumming on the tabletop was likely letting both of them know that, too.

But Bernie had his nose glued to a sheet of paper, pausing eating his pie every so often to scribble on it.

Elton’s thoughts carouselled around, trying to recall a time he’d witnessed Bernie writing a song before. And that had bound to be what he was doing, he was so concentrated. Elton came to the conclusion that he had never actually witnessed him do it before. It felt almost like spotting a cryptid. Elton was about to lean to him, attempt to snoop or straight-up ask him what he was working at, when a glimpse of John’s face in the corner of his eye injected him with a dose of rage that kept him rigid.

By the end of the meal, where, still, the only things sitting in his stomach were a few peas, the iciness emitting from John and therefore from Elton, was tangible, freezing the air.

After putting up with enough of that, enough of him and of the food, Elton excused himself and said for neither of them to follow, he was tired.

He made a pit-stop in the bathroom to jam his fingers into his throat again, then retreated to his room where he rolled himself a sloppy joint, but it wasn’t so shitty that it wouldn’t get the job done. He raked through the drawer for a lighter, and finding a tiny green one, he sank into the pillows. The pungent scent already beginning to hit his nostrils was a taster of the bliss he couldn’t wait to be enveloped in. He hadn’t considered how much he’d missed it until then. The smoke brushed the vomit burn at the back of his throat on its way to his lungs and he held it for as long as possible before releasing; he’d heard from someone that doing that increased the high. He wasn’t sure about that, but he always found himself doing it despite how authentic he believed it was. A matter of habit. But the slight lack of oxygen did do something.

Flecks of ash landed on his chest after a few moments of staring at the wall. He shooed them away, continuing to balance the joint in his fingers like an acrobat while his other hand’s thumb kept swiping the spark wheel, enough to make it feel already-calloused and numb. He took another drag. The marijuana fuzz scarfed itself around his brain, making him recline further against the marshmallowy pillows, then the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes from a murky sleep. The joint was dead on his chest. He hadn’t realised how genuinely tired he must have been. He relit it, unaware of the time of day outside the curtains, then had a surge of inspiration.

He rolled to get a pen from the drawer and slid his journal onto his lap, propping his knees up like an easel and flipping the book open to the next page after his last torn-out entry. He’d forgotten to update it, so filled in each day since’s dietary situations, footing each one Bernie had made and he had barely touched then expelled down the drain with: _Poor Bernie. Sorry, Bernie!_

He exhaled a laugh with smoke, at his own cleverness and at Bernie’s lack of awareness. He underlined what he’d written, creating a new category below for today.

_Dinner: A few garden peas! Vomit now, too! Go me! Sorry, Bernie!_

_Besides listing what I’ve eaten just now, I’ve done fuck all. Actually, no, we recorded some of the album today. Think that’s it pretty much done. That was fun, I suppose. Apart from certain instances. Some of the songs piss me off, too. They’re good songs, but if they’re not about me, which they aren’t, they fucking aren’t, then they’re just plain miserable. I’ll be singing them in five years’ time still wishing they were about me. Can’t wait!_

He shut the book, extracting the last few draws from the joint before it died. He let it wash into him, clouding every organ in his body. After basking in its glow for a while, he looked back towards his two options. He considered another joint, then considered a joint seasoned with a little coke. Just to give it an extra kick. But if he was going to go to the effort of doing that, he may as well just do a line. And have another joint. You could in fact have your cake and eat it.

After, he reached for the razor he’d used moments before, swiping the remaining traces of fine powder onto his tongue. Parts of his mouth and nose had lost a little sensation, but the sudden rush of liquid in his mouth paired with metallic flavour let him know he’d just cut a small slice into his tongue. He swore, shutting his mouth tightly to act as a tourniquet as he swallowed it. Then, unhesitatingly, he pushed the corner of the blade against his forearm with so much force that it instantaneously drew blood there, too. He dragged it sideways, watching his blood prickle to the surface in a neat line that rolled down his skin in chaotic tendrils, then pressed another below it, teeth clenched into his lower lip. Pain faded, then became nonexistent. It only cut open a hole from which inner hurt could somewhat drain. He did it repeatedly, not considering when to stop; reopening a few of the just-healed cuts and making new ones. He paused, eyes feverishly scanning the fresh massacre before switching his attention to his unscathed right arm, whose pale skin and wilted, white scars from years before screamed to be torn open. Next thing it too was streaming, matching the other. And while it pleased him, and the drugs in his body were uplifting, the sight also sent a rampant gush of panic through his body. About exactly what, his thoughts weren’t coherent enough to tell him. But he knew there was something.

He got up, put his dressing gown on, heart pounding. He paced a couple of steps, then frantically crafted two joints, both of which were even more scrappily made than the first two. Didn’t matter.

He dumped them onto the bed, then changed his plan and scooped them up, slipping them into his pocket. He held his chin, heartbeat climbing, trying to decipher what he had to do.

“What am I doing? What am I doing? Er…”

He lifted his journal and threw it between the headboard and the wall, chucking the bloody razor in along with it. He could deal with that later. Later.

He fixed the corner of the bed sheets, carefully smoothing them out, then took a step back to admire his handiwork.

 _Good enough_.

He carefully made his way back downstairs, holding the bannister for aid as he remembered his glasses were still lying on his pillow.

Bernie was sitting in the armchair, empty glass beside him, open book on his lap, all only visible from the lamp next to him being on. It was like he was caught in its amber orb. Like he was a firefly. It was dark everywhere else. The hallways were engulfed with black. Now it felt like night. What fucking time was it?

Bernie’s head perked up, turning as Elton flung past him. “Elton. You alright?”

“Yup.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“Elton.”

“Told you he’d locked himself away to do more drugs.” John’s voice, from somewhere in the dark. “The smell of that. He’s high as a kite. Hey. Do you know what time it is?”

“That’s not helpful,” Bernie murmured.

“It wasn’t supposed to be helpful.”

Elton stopped and turned, red glance flitting between them as his eyes somewhat adjusted. He pointed at John, who was smoking a cigarette. Its orange light was floating in front of his hazy outline, its smell now all-consuming. “The smell of me? How many times have I told you you can’t smoke in this fucking house?”

John walked closer and pulled the cigarette from his lips. “You smoke?”

“Not those.”

“Well done, do you want an applause for that? It’s my house too, so I can also do what I want when I want. And I asked you something. Do you know what time it is?”

Elton looked to Bernie—his tired eyes, his crumpled posture in the chair. Then to John, who was in his underwear.

“It’s four in the morning, you idiot.”

“Well, what’re you two doing up?” Elton asked.

“None of your business.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Bernie said flatly, lifting his book by its corner. “Came down to get a drink of water.”

Elton gave a puzzled expression, then smiled for reasons unbeknownst to him. “Oh, and Bernie told me he doesn’t give a shit if I do drugs.”

“Sure he doesn’t,” John said.

“I _don’t_ care,” Bernie said.

“See? So, ha, _you_ don’t know anything. Now, if you don’t fucking mind, I’m going to listen to some records.”

John sneered. “He’s going to listen to some records. That’s how you know he’s off it. He’s fucking mad. Och, well, I’m going back to bed. Goodnight.”

Elton turned and made off down the hall. “I don’t want either of you following me.”

“Don’t have to worry about that. Lunatic.”

“Elton,” Bernie tried.

“Let him be, he’s telling you not to follow him ‘cause he actually wants you to. He’ll come down from it. Let him go. You’ll find him in there in the morning.”

“Elton.”

“I’m fine, Bernie,” Elton said, whisking further down. “I’m fine, don’t listen to him. I just want to listen to some music on my own.”

Again, the record room’s door only being lockable from the outside disappointed him.

Inside, he chose Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ album, which seemed to be highlighted above the rest of its shelf-mates, calling to him, presenting itself to him like it had to be the one he listened to first. He turned the volume up loud enough to know he’d be able to feel the vibrations on his face. He sat down cross-legged directly in front of the speakers, avidly awaiting the first song, knees fluttering and pounding against the Brillo-like carpet.

Halfway through jittering along to the music, he decided to smoke one of the joints, and rather than subdue the effects of the coke, it parallelled and amplified the distorted euphoria. Which was exactly what he was hoping for. He buzzed along, bobbing his head, cradling himself back, forth, sparingly singing along to ‘Piano Man,’ finding parts of it somewhat autobiographical. It reminded him of days long gone by, when he was nothing more than a backing band member in his teenage role in Bluesology. At the time he was sick of it, he wanted to do more. But now that he had done ten times more than anything he ever hoped for and those days were long gone, he sometimes didn’t know if more was a good or bad thing. Sometimes doing more, doing the most, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Like the song, the recognition was both sad and… not.

He allowed Billy Joel to take it for the most part, preferring to hear it from him. But he rode along each song, letting each of the messages and tunes swamp him, take him on a journey through heightened emotions and picturesque scenes. He sat fidgeting on the spot like an over-excited, in-awe child listening intently to a storyteller, the narrator in this instance being Billy Joel.

The songs named ‘You’re My Home’ and ‘The Ballad of Billy the Kid,’ the second one especially—more _specifically_ —reminded him of Bernie.

He sank onto his side and curled into a ball, legs restlessly ticking.

Billy Joel’s music reminded him of Bernie in general—the words, the way he wrote them— they both had a way with them. That might have been a subconscious part of why he chose the album in the first place. Or, it chose him.

By ‘Captain Jack’ the cocaine high was starting to fade, only being held up by the weak-in-comparison marijuana high, which had transformed into a more melancholy feeling, leaving its coke-hyping properties in the coke.

He cursed himself for not bringing more coke down with him as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the other joint to suffice. He lit it, welcoming another boost as the bittersweet lyrics floated overhead.

_Captain Jack will get you high tonight,_

_And take you to your special island._

_Captain Jack will get you by tonight,_

_Just a little push, and you’ll be smilin’._

The words seemed like they were meant for him at this exact moment.

He snorted a laugh at himself as the line about playing your albums and smoking your pot played, before crashing back into depression as the verse ended.

 _“Oh, but still you’re aching for the things you haven’t got,”_ Billy Joel snidely cracked, _“what went wrong?”_

He shut his eyes, sinking into the hazy feeling enveloping him. What did go wrong? When? When?

“Are you okay, Reg?”

Elton opened his eyes, raising his head to see Bernie stood in the door he’d cracked ajar, the song only scuffling to a halt as he did so. He’d probably knocked, but it hadn’t been noticeable.

Elton groaned, letting his head fall back down. If it was John, he would’ve forced himself to start on him like a wild dog.

“I told you not to follow me,” he said, pitifully turning his face against the rough carpet.

“I know.” Bernie closed the door behind him and tread softly inside. “But I wanted to make sure you were really alright.”

Elton looked back up at him, and Bernie was now lending him a lopsided smile. Elton couldn’t find it in him to attempt to smile back.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I don’t think you’re fine. You look like a lost puppy.” Bernie crouched down. “What’s wrong with you?”

Elton shook his head the smallest bit. There were no words.

“Hm? What is it? And you shouldn’t smoke in here, you know. There aren’t any windows.”

Elton almost asked him how he knew he’d been smoking, before registering the heavy smell in the air. He laughed, saying, “It’s better that way.”

Bernie rolled his eyes jokingly. “Okay, yeah.” He traced his fingers over the back of Elton’s head, and it repulsed him in a way a touch so sweet shouldn’t. “What’s wrong? Why’re you lying down here on your own?” He let a quiet laugh escape him. “Listening to Billy Joel records?”

“Just the one.” Elton sighed, again shaking his head as much as the floor would allow. “Nothing’s wrong… I’m just fed up.”

“I know that.” Bernie let his fingers swirl to a stop, sweeping down his back. He sat back against a shelf and beckoned for Elton to join him.

Elton debated continuing to lie there, whether moving was worth it, before deciding sitting next to Bernie was the best option he had. He peeled himself from the floor, shoulder muscles twisted and aching, face decorated with a new carpet rash alongside his waning bruises, and scooted closer to Bernie, slumping against him.

“I know you’re fed up,” Bernie said, slipping an arm around him. He patted him reassuringly, alternating between that and rubbing his shoulder blade, creating a gentle heat that should have been comforting. It was, to a degree, but not in the way he needed it to be. His own body felt like stone. “What are you fed up with?”

Bernie paused for a response, but Elton said nothing and nuzzled against his shoulder.

Not receiving one, Bernie said: “With John? Doing the album? _Albums_? …Life?”

He added the last one with a bit of a laugh, as if it could only have been a joke.

Elton pointed out the actual false answer. “Not the albums.”

“Just the rest?”

“Mm-hm. I’m sick and tired of it. Everything. Everything’s… horrible. It’s so horrible. John. Myself. Life. _Everything_. I’m tired of it, Bernie, I really am.”

Bernie took his hand, brushing his thumb over the top. “I know.”

“I wanna die. I’ve never wanted to more than I do right now.”

Bernie hummed, listening.

“I’ve never felt worse,” Elton went on. “Seriously. I think this is the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. And I feel like a fucking idiot right now.”

“Don’t. You’re not.” Bernie pulled Elton’s hand to rest his arm across his torso, then emitted a gasp, keeping it aloft.

“What?” Elton pried his face from Bernie’s shirt.

He looked to his hand hanging in mid-air then followed Bernie’s horrified gaze down to where his sleeve had slacked, exposing what he’d carved there in the previous hour, some still oozing slightly, while others had become encrusted in the blood that was smearing his entire forearm.

Bernie was now staring back at him, disturbed, _horrified_.

Elton swivelled his wrist from his hand. “What?”

“What do you mean? Wha— When’d you do that?”

Elton pulled his sleeve back over. “I did it in my room…”

“Why?” Bernie asked, tension choking him. “Jesus Christ. Good _God,_ Elton.”

“Because I wanted to. Did you not hear me? I’m tired of this. I fucking hate myself. I deserve to get hurt and I deserve to have my body fucking ruined.”

He was going to continue, but Bernie looked pale and downbeat. Guilt and shame continued puddling in Elton’s guts.

“ _Don’t_ say that,” Bernie said.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do, I understand more than you think I do.”

“Sometimes it’s the only option. It helps. If you understood that, you wouldn’t be so shocked. You wouldn’t say that. If you’re disappointed—”

“I’m not _disappointed,_ ” Bernie stressed, but softly. He paused for a few seconds, staring ahead. “I just… feel bad. I don’t want you feeling that way, man. Did he make you do that?”

“No! Don’t be daft.”

Bernie’s eyes delved into his. “Did he make you feel like this?”

Elton said nothing.

“That _hurts_ , man. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t… It’s- It’s nothing to do with you. It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not, but it fucking hurts me to think you feel like you need to hurt yourself like that. ‘Cause of him.”

“It’s not only because of that,” Elton said thickly.

Bernie’s brow furrowed deeply. “Either way, it’s sick. It’s fucking sick. Seeing you in such a bad way, it kills me, I’m so sorry. I am so sorry I couldn’t help. I wish I could take it from you, this… this— I wish I could do more…”

Silence for at least three minutes.

Elton leaned forward. “Are you crying?”

Bernie wiped at each of his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure either. “Yes,” he said eventually. “Yes, I’m crying.”

Hot tears flooded the backs of Elton’s eyes, stinging the corners on cue. “Don’t…”

“Sorry.” Bernie set an arm over his knee, winding himself tight.

“You don’t need—”

“It’s just fucking sad.” Bernie pushed his heap of hair backwards, holding it there, looking at him through glassy red eyes. “You know? I don’t want that for you. This isn’t— This is… This is awful.”

Tears spilled over onto Elton’s cheeks, blurring his vision further. He always ruined things. Bernie was rarely someone who was lost for words. He only ever seemed to misplace them when Elton was the root cause.

With a sob, Elton pushed his face back against Bernie’s shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Bernie sighed, letting it draw out shakily as he uncoiled and rested his head back against the shelves. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You don’t deserve this. You really don’t. What about your other arm? Is it—”

Elton nodded against him, hoping Bernie could distinguish it as a response because he didn’t want to attempt to speak.

Bernie sighed again, meaning he had.

“I thought we’d got you past this,” he said in a way that was more to himself than to him. “How long?”

Elton wasn’t sure of specifics, or how far back he was referring to.

“Since I got back.”

“You shouldn’t be having to escape from a relationship,” Bernie said steadily. “The relationship should be the escape… from everything else.”

Elton made an apathetic sound.

Bernie held back on sighing again, remaining quiet until he’d gathered enough thoughts. Then, with a newfound triumph, he said: “For this next album you have to do, we’re not doing it here. No way. We’re going to go back to my house. Okay? And we’re gonna make it a really good one. No more of this. No John bullshit. It’s not right.”

Elton nodded as a wave of unexpected relief washed through him. The hum he gave was muffled from Bernie’s shirt and the congestion he was leaking onto it. They said nothing for ages until Elton sat up, rubbing the snot from his nose.

“Sorry.” He sniffled. “About your shirt.”

Bernie looked at the silver streak and shrugged the shoulder it coated. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Elton ran his hands over his eyes, cheeks still shiny and wet. He sighed, and his body sagged into a hunch. “I feel like such a fool.”

“Everyone struggles, you know,” Bernie said, forcing a smile like he knew of its healing properties. “Life’s hard.”

“Well, you don’t seem to be doing too bad.”

“I haven’t been through the stuff you have. God knows where I’d be, dude. And everyone copes differently.”

Elton thought. “What were you doing awake at this time?”

“Come on, you know me being up with the foxes is nothing out of the ordinary.”

Elton laughed weakly, but genuinely. “Suppose.”

“Nighttime makes me feel like I can do anything sometimes.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. Don’t know what it is about it, feel like I’m capable of anything. It must be due to an affinity I’ve got with these hours. It’s the main time I sit and come up with countless ideas, all these plans… I always feel ready at night.”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing. Morning comes and drains my powers.”

Elton felt a slight smile form. “What were you reading?”

“It’s just an old poetry book. Real sleepy stuff. Was hoping it’d help me drift off.” Bernie shuffled, attempting to move even closer, and Elton leaned back into him. “I wish you would tell me about things like this, though, Elton. I know you say it’s not my fault, but it makes me feel like I didn’t protect you when I could have.”

“It’s not up to you to _protect_ me.” He said it like the words tasted bad. “I don’t need protecting. From myself, clearly, that’s about the only thing, but other than that…”

“It makes me feel like I wasn’t there for you.”

“What _else_ am I supposed to do, Bernie?”

Bernie inhaled, looking straight ahead at the door. “Sometimes all that can be done is just: lie down… and breathe. And sometimes that’s enough. You know? That’s still fighting, that’s still persevering.” His hand resumed the pattern it had been making on Elton’s back. “We’ll figure this out. Together. You’re gonna be alright. I promise you.”

“Am I crazy?” Elton asked, looking down at his purple sleeves that were beginning to allow red to bleed through. “God, I feel like I’m fucking crazy sometimes.”

“You aren’t crazy. Just hurting.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I _can_ do.”

“Be kinder to yourself. I know it’s easier said than done, but that’d be a start. And while you learn to do that, I’ll be here, doing it for you. Kindness for two.”

Elton laughed a little and Bernie kissed the top of his head. Elton’s eyes bugged, his stomach did a somersault—but when he unfroze, he hugged him a little tighter.

Bernie kissed his head again, as casually as plucking a daisy. “You’re worthy of love just as you are. And I’m living proof of that, because I love you. And I promise I’ll do everything I can do to support you through all this. I’m not letting my best friend suffer. At your own hands or anyone else’s.”

Bernie was far too sweet to him. It sickened him, in a way. Because he didn’t deserve it one bit.

Bernie eventually stood and took his hand, aiding him to his feet. “Come on. You have to let me clean those.”

“Oh, no… No, you don’t need to do that.”

“Please. Just let me. Knowing you, you’d leave them like that. It’s the least I can do to help you now.”

“Okay.”

“Come on. They need love, too.”

They walked into the hallway, hands still clasped together. Elton didn’t want him to let go even though both of his palms were basted with sweat, and the nerves coiling like snakes in his stomach were apprehending what the outcome would be if John was lurking around. They were in the living room now. He scanned the area, eyes skating from corner to corner, as he trod alongside him, grip on his hand subconsciously tightening.

“He left,” Bernie said, heading for the kitchen.

Elton followed his lead, anxiety inside him levelling to its previous amount.

Bernie let go to motion to a chair at the table. “Sit down there.”

Elton let his hand float in the air before shuffling over to sit.

“Are you cold or anything? Want a blanket to set ‘round you?”

Elton looked at his bare legs that were both involuntarily juddering, and not from the cold, and shook his head.

Bernie boiled a small amount of water in the kettle, then rifled through the drawers and cupboards below the sink as it heated, making a professional fuss. He came out with a tiny first aid box that Elton wasn’t previously aware of, followed by a bottle of antiseptic.

“We’ll let this cool a bit first.” Bernie set a bowl down on the table, poured the boiling water into it. He lifted kitchen roll from its holder and pulled out an adjacent chair to sit in. “Now, this might hurt a bit.”

Elton shrugged, presenting both arms underside-up on the table.

Bernie drew a breath through his teeth as he surveyed the situation. He was so concerned, it was endearing.

“You’re so nice,” Elton said, then cleared his throat. “To me.”

“I’m just doing the decent thing. Bare minimum, really, don’t you think?”

Elton guessed so. He’d do the same for him if he was ever in the same position. Though, Bernie would never stoop that low. No matter how miserable he was.

“Does it not fucking hurt?” Bernie almost whispered, baffled at the idea.

Elton smiled. “That’s… kind of the point.”

Bernie’s face remained dour. He reached for the kitchen roll, tearing off a sheet and bunching it into a ball.

“It doesn’t really hurt right now,” Elton said, looking at the little butterflies inscribed on the paper’s surface, thoughts feeling physical, like they were bubbling up in his brain. “It feels like—” He shrugged, words shutting down and failing. “Nothing.”

Bernie thinned his lips, dipping his kitchen roll swab into the water. He gently dabbed it against the cuts, holding onto Elton’s wrist.

Elton let out a hiss past his teeth, and Bernie lifted his hand like he’d been burned, large eyes looking up to meet his.

“Sore?”

“A little. But it’s fine. Keep going.”

Bernie resumed cleaning the wounds, eyes flicking up every so often, checking.

“What made you do it this time? I know you said… but was there a particular incident? Or…”

“I don’t want to say.”

Bernie’s eyes met his again for a brief moment, guarded under his heavy brow.

“It’s difficult,” Elton muttered, “to say what it was. Is what I mean. It was… everything. Everything feels too much sometimes.”

“I understand. But I don’t want you to do this. If you don’t care about yourself enough to not do it, then don’t do it… for me. I hate this. It’s…”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.” Bernie smiled a little. “Promise me you’ll try.”

The P word shot him like a bullet and he flinched like he’d been struck, but he supposed Bernie would take it as being from the literal wounds on his arm. He had to say it, but he knew it held no weight.

“I promise.”

“I told you that you could come and talk to me.” Bernie set the stained piece of kitchen roll to the side, tearing off and crafting another. “About anything. It doesn’t matter what. If it’s enough to make you want to hurt yourself like this, come and talk to me, and we’ll… we’ll sort something else out. You don’t need to do that.”

Elton nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“You can even punch me, if you like.”

Elton snorted.

“You can, you can take it all out on me. I won’t mind.”

“I’m sure you _would_ mind if I socked you one.”

“Not really. People use powder puffs on their faces every day, don’t they? I don’t think it hurts.”

“How very dare you! What are you trying to say? You think I can’t throw a punch?”

Bernie suppressed laughing, eyes focused downward as he worked. “Now, I didn’t say that.”

“It’s not that I couldn’t, it’s that I wouldn’t. Not at you. I’ve never hit anyone in my life, the first one’s not going to be you. So, yeah, actually, I suppose the only way I would come at you would be equal to that of a powder puff, wouldn’t it?”

“There you go. And you’re free to,” Bernie said. “But give me a heads up first, at least.”

“Oh, yeah. Make way for the fucking powder puff.”

After cleaning the blood away, Bernie swiped over the cuts with diluted antiseptic.

“Luckily, they aren’t that deep,” he said, opening the first aid box again. “So, they shouldn’t be anything to worry about once they’ve healed up. But there was quite a lot of blood.”

“You’re so good,” Elton outwardly mused, “at everything.”

He hadn’t lost enough blood to become loopy, he definitely didn’t feel the way he did because of that. But his head was tingling as if it was full of static scraped directly off a TV screen. He felt crazy, restless. Faint.

Bernie set a roll of bandages onto the table. “Well, I’m no medic.” He unwound it. “But I’m doing my best… I’m gonna wrap your arms up, alright?”

“Alright.”

Bernie wound the bandages around each arm, securing them with a tiny piece of tape that he professionally snipped with miniature scissors and not his teeth.

“How’s that?”

“Fine.”

“Not too tight?”

Elton shook his head.

“Okay,” Bernie breathed, smile attached. He started slipping the items back into the box.

“Thank you,” Elton said.

“You’re welcome. Also, I’m not good at everything. I can’t sing like you. Or play the piano.”

Elton smiled, cocking his head to one side.

“Do you know what I did?” Bernie said.

“What’d you do?”

“I wrote another song.”

“You did?”

Bernie nodded.

“Is that what you were doing earlier?” Elton looked around the table for the piece of paper from dinner, as if it had a chance of still being there.

“Yeah. I think you’ll like it a lot. I think it’d fit into Captain nicely. I wanna add something to it first, though.”

“Well, add it and we can go out and play it.”

Bernie winced. “Are you sure? We can leave it…”

“Yeah.” Elton stood up, rubbing his newly-bound arms like he was trying to keep warm. “I’m good.”

“Okay. But what about him?”

“Oh, sod him. We’ll be quiet. And if he does hear, we’re working, aren’t we? In the middle of the night or not. So he can hardly complain.”

Bernie followed him out to the living room, plunging into his pocket, and Elton sat himself on the stool at the piano. Bernie set the crumpled paper on the back of the sofa, using it to lean on. He whipped out the trusty pencil he kept on him at all times from his breast pocket, tampering with whatever it was he wanted to alter.

“Here,” he said, placing it onto the rack.

“What’s it called?” Elton asked, slanting forward. “Writing?”

“Yeah.”

Elton pushed his dressing gown’s train out from below him like a cloak and glided over the first four lines in his mind. Finding the mood of the song, he went back to the first line, pausing as he positioned his fingers over the keys, eyes tracing around the corners of his vision in thought before pushing down on them, creating the first sounds.

“It’s about you.”

Elton faltered, drawing a breath and leaving his mouth open. He turned his head to look at him.

“Me?”

Bernie nodded, settling on the corner of the coffee table.

“Well, you and I. Together. But I wrote it for you.”

“You and I together,” Elton said, turning his focus back to the piano his hands were still sitting on. His eyes were begging to read on, but he made himself start from the beginning again, wanting to save the rest, take it in slowly. Savour it. The new tune that sprang to mind was a lot more pleasant. He sang through the first verse, a smile tugging at his mouth with every word, then… _“Lazy days… My razor blade… could use a bit of rest.”_ He stopped playing to cackle, head thrown back. “I take it that’s the part you added.”

“One of them. Keep going.”

Elton rolled his eyes playfully, picking up on the cheerful tune.

_“‘Cause writing’s lighting up… and I like life enough—to see it through.”_

He finished the song off with the same sweet melody from the intro and swivelled around to face Bernie again.

“I like that one,” Bernie said.

“Me too. We’ll put it on Brown Dirt as well.”

Bernie snorted. “Brown Dirt.”

“We can’t put the bit about razor blades in it, though. As much as I love that, someone will sneak a look at the marks on my arms and put two and two together. The papers will be all over it, and me, like flies.”

Bernie hummed, moving over to lift the paper, scribbling again. “We’ll just change it a bit.”

He set the new crossed-out and altered lyrics down and Elton jumped back onto the keys, flawlessly picking up on that line.

_“My razor blade could use a better edge.”_

They both burst into laughter and decided that that was inconspicuous enough to add to the album, while still retaining its previous meaning—to them, at least. They’d record it properly with the band tomorrow and then the album would be finished. It would be finished.

+

Bernie retreated to his guest bedroom, Elton went back to his, creaking the door open, dipping his head inside. John was there, standing by the bed. Readily, as if awaiting his arrival.

Elton inched inside, shutting the door at his back.

“We made a new song,” he said, an attempt to appease him.

“Great.” John pointed to the floor the way you might do to a disobedient dog. “Get over here.”

Elton shuffled towards him, hands clasped behind him. “I think the album’s finished. We’re going to record it and that should—”

John flung the corner of the duvet back to reveal the now-darkened stains of blood spatter that he hadn’t noticed he’d left there. “What the fuck were you doing?”

Elton looked from him to the bed, shaking his head and stammering aimlessly.

“I, bu— uh, it’s…”

“What were you doing?” John pulled Elton’s arm forward. He seen the bandages and sneered. “Ah. Should have known you’d start this shit again. Don’t tell me Bernie did that for you.”

“Yes.” Elton held both arms to his chest. “So what?”

John hung his head backward as he let the duvet drop. “Fuck me.”

“What?”

“He’s as much of an idiot as you are. You do something stupid, and he’s down on his knees after you like a dog. He doesn’t realise it’s only a cry for attention.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m not wrong. You need to stop this victim shit, Elton. This—” He looked back at the bed. “—is disgusting. I was lying on that. The maids are gone, so _you_ are gonna take these sheets off.”

“John…”

“Now. I don’t care how cut up your arms are. You did that yourself, I don’t have any sympathy for you. This is pushing the boundaries, _this_ is fucking disgusting. You’re not the only one that has to sleep here.” He shoved him towards the bed, and Elton leaned on it, mattress creaking. “Do it now. I got you your drugs, so you’re going to do this. Or I won’t be sleeping in here.”

“Okay! Jesus Christ…” Suddenly, pain in both of his arms was intense, tearing. They felt like they were on fire, but he endured it, returning upright. “What made you change your mind and decide to sleep here anyways?”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Elton stripped the bed bare, holding the sheets in a clump when he wandered to the corner of the room. He looked back at John. “Can I set them here?”

“Yes. You can move them tomorrow.”

He dropped them and moved back to the bed. “Is that alright? Can I go to sleep?”

“Put new ones on.”

“John…”

“Put new ones on.”

“I’m tired…”

“Now!” John yelled. Elton flinched. “I’m not getting into an unmade bed. Hurry up, then you can go to sleep. You’ve got three seconds to get a move on.”

Elton sighed heavily, past the stinging lump in his throat, as he turned to go to the closet. Tentatively, he reached up to take out a new set of bed clothes. He tucked the fitted sheet over the mattress carelessly, then sat down on it to feed the duvet into the cover, hot tears beading in his eyes. He blinked, trying to get rid of them, glancing at John. He wiped the one that rolled over onto his cheek.

“What’re you doing crying over making a bloody bed?”

“I’m not crying over making the fucking bed.”

“Then what’re you crying for now?”

Elton opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself, deciding it wasn’t worth trying to describe. He finished the bedding, making shoddy work of it, arms stabbing at him, and set it back on top of the bed.

“There. Is that okay?”

“Perfect.” John slid underneath the fresh sheets. “Now, was that so hard?”

Elton shook his head, climbing in next to him. John rolled the other way.

“Don’t do that again.”

Elton hated going to sleep knowing John was mad at him. Fucking hated it. His chest was tightening, like someone was wringing water from his heart.

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s good.”

Elton sighed, wiped his cheek, and the cold tear trickled along his skin and seeped into the pillow.

He couldn’t wait to record the next album.

He couldn’t wait to go back to Bernie’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted in this chapter were:  
> We All Fall In Love Sometimes by Elton John  
> Captain Jack by Billy Joel  
> Writing by Elton John*  
> I don't own these!  
> *The first line used is a 'parody' line that I made up based on the actual line.


	10. Grow So Incredibly High

+

‘Captain Fantastic’ was a success.

They managed to pull it off within the week; got all the songs finished, and the album finally out on shop shelves. After all that, it was done. At long last.

And thank God.

The Who had sent the shoes over, along with a special edition pinball machine which kept Elton and Bernie busy for a few hours. The shoes were stored in an appropriate display case in the hallway.

Album art was sent over in time, and it was perfect. A surreal, almost-psychedelic collection of critters, ranging from fish and snakes, to goblins and other strange other-wordly creatures, all framing a cartoon Elton in a futuristic suit, striding out of half of a capsule, a rose in one hand, and a conductor’s baton in the other, bound in some sort of vine. On the back, Bernie was centre-feature, cramped into a capsule of his own: closed and surrounded by woodland critters, reading a book. It captured his essence perfectly.

Other bubbles floated above, depicting others like Davey, his guitarist, and Dee, his bass guitarist, even Ray Williams. The final and smallest bubble, its character sitting cross-legged inside, barely comprehensible, was John, Aldridge had told him. John himself hadn’t taken a great deal of interest in the artwork, so Elton didn’t bother informing him that he was on it, but in the most insignificant way possible. He kept that for himself.

Once released, the album took off immediately. It soared to Number 1 in the States, but was still climbing the charts in the UK. That was always expected, though. The US had always taken to him better, for some reason. But all in good time. Things were picking up.

The triumph of the album put John in good spirits for a couple of days, almost a full week, before he made a point of reminding everybody that a new album was due in another month’s time. And not only that, promotion for this one.

“So, book a couple of shows,” Elton said, blasé. He took a sip of his coffee, then set it back on the table. “Just a few. We can do those, then we can do the next album, and then do a proper tour to promote the two of them at the same time. Kill a bunch of birds with one stone.”

Bernie glanced up from his hands, conveying a non-verbal cue, prompting him to tell John about the plan they’d made in the record room.

“Uh.” Elton fixed his attention back onto John, who was staring. Elton scratched his neck, standing up, clearing his throat. “And, actually, Bernie and I were thinking of taking a couple of weeks at his ranch again… For the next album.”

“What?”

“For the album,” Elton highlighted, chancing another look to Bernie for assistance.

“I think it’d help,” Bernie said. “I think it’d be good for him. For the album.”

“I don’t.” John folded his arms. “Enlighten me on how that would even be slightly helpful.”

“Please, John,” Elton said wearily.

“It’s like a getaway,” Bernie said.

“You’re right,” John said. “A getaway. He won’t lift a finger on a getaway.”

There was no way he was going to allow it. They might as well give up.

“A getaway,” Bernie persisted. “Time away, but to get things done. It’s relaxing for him. It’ll make working easier, faster, and it gives you a break too, doesn’t it? It’ll be helpful, I promise. We’re going to go back and make the entire album, there’s a studio at mine.”

“I’m aware.”

“Right. So, there isn’t a problem. We’ll bring it back in time to be released.”

John deliberated, then ticked both shoulders forward.

“Fine. But that means you’ll be doing these shows _next week_. Then you can go. I’ll get things sorted.”

“Yes.” Elton nodded eagerly. “No problem. Thank you.”

Both thrilled and shocked, Elton chanced another look at Bernie, who was grinning too. John left the room.

They fucking did it.

+

Bernie shook his head, taking a drink of his champagne. “That guy’s insane.”

Elton took a sip from his own bubbling glass. “I know.”

They were having an impromptu celebration of their victory and of the album, though Elton wasn’t feeling so fantastic about it.

“He’ll probably give me an earful later on.”

“Why?” Bernie asked on the tail-end of another sip. “Because you want to have some peace of mind while you’re making your next album? Oh, the horror.”

“Yeah. You know. He has a problem with everything.”

“He needs to get it through his head that you can do things as you see fit,” Bernie said. “He doesn’t control you. Or, rather, he shouldn’t. It’s not like you’re wanting to go to my house to bunk off. It’s to work.”

“I know.”

“He’d rather see you working yourself to the bone. It’s ridiculous.”

The phone started ringing.

Elton stared for a second before deciding to answer, being met with a joyous squawk.

“Ellie!”

“Oh! Hi, Marc.” Elton beamed, sharing a glance with Bernie. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m great! Congrats on your new album, man, it’s sick. How are you _doing?_ ”

“Oh, you know, great. Fantastic. Obviously. And thank you very much, you’re too kind.”

“Just saying it how it is. I love it.” Marc’s grin was audible. “Hey, what I called to ask was, do you want to swing by my place later? If you aren’t busy, of course. John’s coming over, we’re having a fun little get-together, hanging out. There’ll probably be a few other people, too. It’ll be a smash. I thought I’d ask you along, it’ll be like a celebration for you and your album.”

“That’s very sweet of you, thinking of me,” Elton said, guessing John meant Lennon. He twirled his finger around the phone’s cord. “You live in London, right?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Alright. I’ll come by for a while.”

“Cool,” Marc said. “Can’t wait to see you.”

“Likewise.”

“Stop by around seven, then, yeah? Or whenever you like.”

“Yup. Sounds groovy.” Elton laughed. “Seven or whenever.”

“Seven or whenever, man.”

He clicked the phone back on the hook.

“Marc Bolan,” Elton informed.

“Ah.” Bernie laughed then. “What’re the plans?”

“He asked if I wanted to go to his place. To _hang_ _out_ later.”

“Ooh. Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah. He said he asked me to come because of the new album doing so well.”

Bernie clucked, pouting his lower lip.

Elton reciprocated his expression. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”

“He really is.” Bernie bent forward to rest his forearms on his knees, glass dangling between them.

“Do you want to come?” Elton asked, hoping he would.

“I would love to,” Bernie said, but squinted one eye. “But I’ve to go and see Juniper, remember? I promised her.”

“Oh, yeah,” Elton almost whispered. He did say that yesterday. “Well, that’s fine, no trouble.”

“You said seven or whenever?”

“Yeah.”

“I can drop you off,” Bernie said. “Juniper lives in London, and we’re going out, so I’ll throw you off.”

“You sure?”

Elton didn’t really want to run the risk of seeing her. If Bernie ended up picking her up on the way to Bolan’s house, and he had to sit next to her, forging small talk—that would catapult him into the sourest of moods for a party. Or whatever it was. He didn’t hate Juniper. At all. By no means. He felt like he had to be a different person around her. Around Bernie.

“Of course,” Bernie said benevolently. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Okay, then,” Elton conceded with a smile. “I’ll have to call Marc back first. I’ve no idea whereabouts in London he lives.”

When seven o’clock rolled around, Bernie and Elton loped out the front door, telling John as they passed him where they were off to. He yelled after them, telling Elton he’d better not fuck around or do anything stupid.

They got into Bernie’s truck, a cute little green pickup. Both emitted a breath as if they’d slipped past 50 laser beams guarding the Queen’s jewels.

“That went okay,” Bernie puffed.

“Yeah.” Elton nodded once as Bernie put the keys into the ignition. “Let’s get out of here.”

+

As it turned out, the journey didn’t entail picking Juniper up first. Much to Elton’s relief.

Bernie pulled into a little nook of a street signposted as Seymour Path, just as Marc had stated. Number 22. Although, it didn’t appear to be the dwelling of a young rockstar. It was an unremarkable little house sandwiched between two others in a row.

“Are you sure this is right?” asked Bernie, turning the light on, revealing his face was scrunched in similar scepticism. “You think this is it?”

“It must be.” Elton looked back to the door in question. It was the only house on the row with its porch light on. “Twenty two, red door… Yeah. That’s what he said. Must be his humble abode.”

“Must be. Alright.” Bernie clamped a hand back onto the steering wheel. “Go on ahead. And if he’s having you on, go in and have a cuppa with the people who live there and ask if you can use their phone, and I’ll come back and get you.”

Elton laughed, unjamming the door’s lock, stealing a prolonged glance at him while he wasn’t looking. He was dressed to impress and was already doing so. He had on a red shirt, striking against his bronzed skin, first few buttons undone, and a black leather jacket on top. Faux, of course. He smelled good, too. He always did, but it was especially apparent sitting in the confinement of his truck. It wasn’t an obnoxious scent, it was subtle. That elderflower smell. Elton almost didn’t want to open the door, deliberately letting it escape.

“You smell nice…”

“Thank you,” Bernie said, genuinely complimented. “It’s just that cheap stuff I always get.”

“Smells nice.”

They both smiled, and Elton ignored how much he felt like kissing him right there and then.

He laughed, not knowing what else to say, and finally climbed out, complementary red wine from a passed-by liquor store in hand.

“Alright,” he said, ducking his head back in, tapping the roof of the vehicle. “You really are coming back to get me later, aren’t you?”

“Aye-aye, Captain!”

Elton snorted. “See you later, then, cowboy.”

“See you later,” Bernie echoed, and Elton slammed the door, giving a salute.

Bernie mouthed a muffled ‘be careful,’ then smiled back and mirrored his action. He remained at the edge of the road, obviously wanting to see whatever was about to transpire.

Elton walked along the footpath, opening the tiny red gate with a resounding creak, making his way up to the porch. There was no sign that there was a gathering going on inside, no sound of music. There weren’t any of his flashy cars that he couldn’t drive. Elton braced himself, then rapped his knuckle against the door.

He turned, looking back to Bernie, who was still grinning back under his truck’s interior light with his thumb up.

Chains rattling and sliding against the other side of the door jolted Elton into turning back to face it.

It opened, and the tiny Marc Bolan peeped his head around the corner.

“Ellie!” he cried, all smiles as he stepped out and draped a hug around his shoulders.

“It’s me. How’re you?”

“Good.” Marc looked off behind him. “Is that Bernie?”

“Yes.” Elton pivoted, waving back at his friend. “That’s Bernie.”

“Tell him to come in!” Marc said, eyeliner-coated eyes insisting. “Join us! We’re having a great old time. A real bash!”

“Oh, he’d love to, but he’s off to see his girlfriend.”

Marc tutted before returning to his lively demeanour. “Well, he can come next time. Anyhow, come on inside, come on.”

Marc tip-toed backwards, letting Elton walk past him into the narrow hallway. Photographs lined each of the too-close walls, lopsided and unsymmetrical. Most of them of himself, others looked to be of his friends, his girlfriend, and amateur photography of minibeasts he must have found in his garden, all in equally splendid frames. It was then that Elton noticed Marc wasn’t wearing any socks or shoes.

“Everybody’s in there, man.” Marc pointed to the only portal apart from the stairs that there was.

Elton walked inside.

There _was_ music playing, albeit very, very quietly. A dreamy South Asian twang. The air, rife with musky incense smoke. His gaze lifted to find both David Bowie and John Lennon sitting cross-legged on opposing togo sofas, also barefoot, with bowls of what looked like cereal in their hands.

 _Everybody_ was in there.

Elton snorted at the ludicrous sight as Marc bustled in behind him, clamping his hands on his shoulders as he declared, “Ellie’s here!”

“Ellie!” Bowie and Lennon cheered past mouthfuls of oats, holding their spoons in the air.

Marc gasped excitedly. “I didn’t even get them to do that!”

“Fuck me,” Elton breathed, taking in the miniature room coming down with knick-knacks and too much furniture. Cramped orange walls made the room appear even smaller. He shuffled through the gaps to sit down next to John and took his shoes and socks off to blend in, setting the bottle of wine he brought onto the nearby table. “This is some gig, isn’t it?”

“You can say that again,” John said in his nasally Liverpudlian voice.

“We’re all having a _great_ time.” Marc skipped into the centre of the room, emitting a sound similar in energy to that of an exhaust popping: “Woo!” then, “Oh, Ellie, would you care for some muesli?”

“Muesli,” Elton murmured, looking at the other two who seemed to be enjoying theirs. He’d forgotten about feeling a little hungry before he left. He’d also forgotten about Marc’s vegetarianism. Last he’d heard about it, he’d backslid a little. But he must have gotten himself back on track. “Yes, I would, Marc. I’d love some muesli.”

Marc let out a boyish squeak before prancing out of the room, coming back a few minutes later with a quaint bowlful of oats, nuts, and seeds swimming in milk, with a few fresh berries sprinkled over the top.

“There you are.” Marc handed the bowl over. “Now everyone’s got some.”

“Thank you,” Elton said, then motioned to the bottle of wine next to him. “This is for you, by the way.”

Marc let out an erotic hum and cried out, “Beautiful!” as he plodded himself into a beanbag, picking up his own bowl from the floor. “You’re so sweet. Oh, and that milk… it’s almond milk, Ellie. It’s very nice.”

“I’m sure.” Elton dipped his spoon into his trail mix, making sure to get some of the berries on it. He took a mouthful and nodded, then spoke below his hand. “Very good.”

His positive reaction was much to the delight of Marc.

It wasn’t actually bad, and it couldn’t have been very fattening. It wouldn’t be his own choice of party snack. But to each their own.

Elton had met David Bowie face-to-face once before. At a party much bigger than this one. Elton was buzzing on coke and ended up talking too much and too long about certain albums he was currently obsessing over, seemingly going overboard, even for Bowie—another cocaine fan and lover of music. Bowie ended up contributing very little to the conversation and abruptly walked away. Elton’s impression of him was, ‘What a snooty bastard.’ Bowie’s last and probably lasting impression of him was: an overzealous nerd, who was, frankly, a little bit weird—even to him, apparently. King of Weird.

Looking at the pair of them on paper, it should have been a match made in Heaven, a house on fire, but that wasn’t the case. Although they clearly rubbed each other up wrong like two alley cats, Elton still respected him as an artist and liked his music.

Lennon, on the other hand, was easy to get along with; he acted like he’d known you for years even if he hadn’t, and like Marc, was a good friend.

Everybody sat in silence, listening to Frank Sinatra charming his way through ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ and spoons clinking to pottery as they ate their muesli. Elton’s mind drifted back to Bernie under the spotlight of his truck, and the way he looked tonight, forcing him to manually dispel the thought.

“So,” he began, setting his mostly empty bowl aside. “What’s on the cards for tonight?”

“We’re just chilling,” Marc said, matter-of-fact. “Aren’t we?”

David and John let out a murmur of agreeing replies.

“Your new album,” David then started slowly, leaning forward at the same pace like a serpent, waving his spoon towards Elton like a baton. He cracked a wrinkle-eyed smile. “It’s very good. Excellent.”

“Thank you,” Elton accepted, surprised, then recognised that both of Bowie’s eyes were broadly dilated, rather than the usual one. Of course they were doing coke and eating muesli. What else would David Bowie, Marc Bolan, and John Lennon be doing on a Saturday night?

And now, Elton John.

“I love the song…” David said, spindly fingers cupping at his chin, “oh, what’s it called.”

“Better Off Dead,” John offered, though David hadn’t said it as a question. “That’s the one you were ranting about earlier.”

“That’s the one.” David clicked his fingers. “What a good song. I also love Someone Saved My Life Tonight. What a _beautiful_ song. You know, that whole album, there’s not one weak link. It’s perfect. It might be my favourite one of yours.”

“It is very good,” Marc chimed in, fluttering his fingers Elton’s way. “I told you that, too.”

“Thank you very much,” Elton said, pretending he wasn’t aware of the lines of coke John Lennon was dicing up on a rotatable bathroom mirror next to him. “Both of you. Really. That means a lot… A lot of work went into it.”

“Your cover of ‘One Day At A Time,’ I liked that a lot,” John said. “Obviously. And ‘Lucy,’ too, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“I like the reggae part on that one,” John continued, adding in a mocked-up, Elton-esque voice: “Very groovy.”

“I liked that, too,” Elton said.

“One might even say I was a bit of an inspiration t’you,” quipped John, pulling an amusing face.

“And one wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

“Seriously, though, great album.”

“Thank you,” Elton repeated for what felt like the thirtieth time, but its earnesty remained the same. “You’d all better stop complimenting me, or my head won’t be able to fit back out that door.”

John chortled in his trademark fashion, then clicked the razor he was using to the mirror like a gavel. “Well, who’d like another glass of coke? Anyone?”

Avid replies reverberated off the box room’s walls as everybody circled and huddled around the mirror on Lennon’s lap like a horde of moths to a flame.

“I see we have some takers!” John declared. “Whoa, easy now. We’ve got enough to go around. Easy, girls.”

When everybody had taken their lines and the high began to climb, John grabbed a guitar that was tucked behind the sofa and proceeded to garble his way through his rendition of Larry Williams’ ‘Bony Moronie,’ paraphrasing the odd word or two, everybody else throwing in their improvised backing vocals. Afterwards, Marc yanked the guitar from him, insisting he had to host a sing-a-long as well, singing something he called ‘I Love To Boogie,’ and everyone keenly joined in on made-up backing vocals for a second time.

They kept themselves topped up, bumping a line every half hour or so in between songs they took turns bursting into, passing the guitar around to everyone, apart from Elton, who was silently thankful because he couldn’t play. Perhaps, a little too soon.

“Ellie, it’s your turn to serenade us!” Marc shouted, thrusting the guitar forward.

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” Elton said, being met with a billow of ‘go on’s from the others. “I would.” He held his hands up in defense. “I assure you, but I can’t play the bloody guitar.”

“When has that stopped anyone?” John said, pointing to Marc. “He can’t fucking play, but he never shuts up.”

“Hey.” Marc pouted, and everybody erupted into bouts of laughter, except him, who appeared to be taking the wisecrack a little too close to heart.

“Give it here.” David craned forward to swipe the guitar, then sat back, readying it against his bony frame and cocking his ankle up to rest on his knee. He strummed the guitar delicately for what seemed like ages before breaking into a rendition of his song ‘Kooks,’ stirring up laughs with its outlandish lyrics and evoking backing harmonies from each of them yet again.

David continued playing around on the guitar and more lines were snorted. Marc took his opportunity to start ad-libbing nonsense poetry to the tunes Bowie was creating as a backtrack. Marc was clearly making it up as he went along, and while it made little to no sense, everyone clung to his every sentence—all peppered with impressive, grand words that he possibly didn’t even know the true meanings of, but the way he intrinsically wound them together was captivating.

When the rush started dying, the guitar laying useless on the carpet, Elton noted that there was still a heap of cocaine to be had sitting by the foot of the couch, yet no one was reaching for it.

John reached into his pocket, whipping out a small bag with four small squares inside.

“I’ve got these,” he said.

David’s grin spread across his face. “You brought Lucy.”

“I did bring Lucy!” John crowed. “She’s a lovely girl, our Lucy.”

Marc shook his curls. “I don’t do stuff like that.”

“That’s okay, you can babysit the rest of us,” John said, then turned. “What about you, Ellie?”

Elton had met Lucy a handful of times in the past. Well, twice. He wasn’t bosom buddies with her like Lennon—he knew of their level of history. He wasn’t sure about David’s past with her, though he was sure he had more experience with her than he had.

“I’ll say hello to her,” Elton decided with very little hesitation.

John woohoo’d then dumped the tabs onto the coke-powdered mirror.

“We’ve got one extra,” he said. “So, someone can either have two, or we can split the last one and two of us can have one and a half each.”

“You and Ellie split it,” said David.

“Okay. You all good with that, Ellie?”

Elton returned with an affirming nod. “I am.”

“I haven’t seen Lucy in ages,” John said, diagonally dissecting one of the tabs into two triangles with the razor. “I’m excited.”

He offered the mirror across the room like a box of chocolates to David, who pinched one of the pieces of paper and stamped it to his tongue, retreating it back into his mouth like a lizard.

“Hey, now,” John chastised in a funny voice. “Wait for us.”

John dropped the two pieces of paper into his mouth and Elton followed, flaking his into his own.

Elton swished the pieces of paper around in his mouth, gradually feeling them clump together on the tip of his tongue after about 15 minutes.

“Can I have some of that wine?” John was talking with the pieces of paper stuck to his gum.

“Ask Marc,” Elton said. “It’s his.”

John turned to look at Marc, eyebrows raised.

“Of course!” he permitted, and Elton passed the bottle over.

John popped the cap off and glugged down a mouthful.

“You’re swallowing yours?”

“What else would you do? No point in spitting it out. I thought you’d appreciate that, Eltie.”

Elton drooped his eyelids halfway, taking the dig on the chin.

He was the only ‘mostly-out’ gay man there; mostly meaning not to the public, only to anyone who knew him personally. Saying that, he was sure ⅔ of them had had their fair share of _homosexual_ experiences. If not, all three of them. He knew none of them had an issue.

“So, I’m Eltie now?”

“No, you’re not,” chirruped Marc. “You’re Ellie. Always.”

John barked like a dog, then said: “I’m trying something new, boys. Eltie! Like Sheltie. Like the dog.” He let out another arrangement of barks and yips before cracking himself up laughing.

“He’s cute like one of those dogs,” David contributed.

Elton’s shoulders bunched up. “Oh, stop it.”

“You are,” Marc said. “You’re the cutest.”

Elton fanned himself, fluttering his eyelashes, swiping back invisible long hair. “Oh, stop!”

“Don’t you think so?” Marc asked. “I think so.”

“Aw, shucks. You’re all so sweet.”

Another 10 minutes passed, and the somewhat familiar butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling became apparent. It was weird and convulsed in waves. It wasn’t entirely pleasant, but not entirely awful. A mixture of excitement and slight sickness. He wasn’t sure if that was how it was supposed to make you feel, but it had been his experience each time he’d tried it.

It could have been Led Zeppelin’s recognisable ‘Black Dog’ that was now echoing through the speakers, chugging through the beginning guitar riffs, that made this time’s queasiness seem amplified, or the fact that he’d been daubed with a little extra. It didnt occur to him that the only notable thing he’d eaten today had been that muesli, and that could be a major contributor, too. The other two seemed to be grooving through it, so he didn’t bother to ask them about their experience.

When ‘Rock and Roll’ started playing, Marc rattled his head to and fro, his froth of curls flouncing in the air seeming to lag in real time like trails left behind a sparkler.

Elton breathed deeply and steadily as the bizarre feeling settled in his stomach, in his chest, and on his head like a helmet. Nothing looked dramatically out of the ordinary yet, but the onset was definitely there, physically tangible. Licking him all over.

“Would anyone like any tea?” Marc brightly asked, bringing himself to his feet and already jaunting towards the kitchen. David and John both replied with ‘yes, please’ like they were a hivemind, and Elton sprung up, following him out.

“I’ll help you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Marc replied sincerely, pushing the doorway’s orange beads out of the way.

Marc’s kitchen was even more boxy than his living room. There was barely any room to move. And upon standing up and walking into the new scene, Elton felt the dreamlike intensity heighten. Crawling into the room was reminiscent of the shrinking hallway scene from _Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory._ The orange floor glowed as if they were standing on the head of a daisy. A clutter of pots and pans hung from a rack above the stove, and little painted porcelain trinkets littered the nearby window sill. It was a regular dingy kitchen, albeit complemented with a little Bolan flair. But it looked and felt whimsical, like a witch’s hut.

Marc boiled the kettle and tinkered around, fetching mugs from the cupboards, setting a dessert spoon onto the counter.

Elton lifted the spoon, holding it like a heavy sword.

“A spoon,” Marc told him.

“Yeah.” Elton wielded it forward. “But look at how big it is.”

Marc’s eyebrows twitched.

“It’s a dessert spoon,” he said. “They’re bigger. Don’t know where any of my teaspoons are.”

“I know,” Elton said, brain struggling to come up with the correct string of words to convey what he really meant. He examined it, things in the background seeming to plunge backwards and blur. The giant spoon was taking up his entire palm. He plunged it towards Marc again, wrapping his other hand around it as if holding it took two hands, eyes staying glued. “Look. Look how big it is in my hands.”

“Right.”

Marc gave a laugh, shaking his head as he reached to the pot crudely labelled ‘TEA,’ plopping the teabags into the row of empty mugs.

“Let me help,” Elton said, setting the spoon back onto the counter. That was enough of that. It didn’t look as big there. He plunged his hand into the pot, lifting out a handful of teabags. He held them in his hands like a pile of tiny mice, almost wanting to kiss them. Becoming engrossed in their silky texture, he earthquaked his hands below them for the sensation.

Marc carefully passed two mugs his way. “You take these in—one of them’s yours. I’ll bring the other two.”

Elton set his pile of mice onto the counter, bar one, nestling it into his pocket. He took the mugs of tea and brought them back into the living room to discover David had nicked his seat, and he and John were packed beside each other, furiously scribbling on sheets of paper.

“Oh, what are you doing?” Elton asked longingly, handing David one of the mugs.

“Thank you.” David balanced his pencil between his fingers as he took it from him. “We’re drawing.”

“Ooh.” Elton sat down on the corner of the sofa and took a tentative sip of his still-very-hot tea. “Let me see.”

John continued to scribble, but David proudly held his drawing up.

“A cat.” He beamed.

And it was a cat. Though, a very odd one. It had a grotesque face, longer-than-average legs, and party hats for ears.

Marc followed and handed John his mug before settling back on his beanbag throne, laughing.

“Thank you for your help, Ellie.”

“Oh no,” Elton whispered, eyes widening as guilt stabbed him. He secured his hands around the hot beverage. “I’m sorry, I forgot. I got distracted.”

“You did help! You brought them in, that’s more than enough help in my book.”

“Thanks.”

Elton supped at the rest of his tea with relief. It must have been the sweetest tea he’d ever tasted too, because every time he went to set it down, he felt compelled to take another sip, which lead to him downing the whole cup as if it were alcohol.

John and David seemed to respond to the inviting drink in a similar manner, throwing back their entire mugs in a matter of seconds.

“That’s a good cuppa tea, I tell you that,” David said in some sort of Texan accent. He smacked his lips and returned to drawing.

“I want to draw,” Elton moaned.

David immediately bestowed a page onto his lap, dropped a pencil on top, then returned to his next masterpiece.

Elton reached into his pocket, forgetting the reason for doing so as he did. His fingers brushed against the teabag he’d stored there. He dragged it out to hold again, watching the others as he mindlessly played with it, flopping it back and forth in his hands like a little beanbag until, suddenly, it burst, and the granules went all over him, the sofa, and the sheet on his lap.

“Oops.”

“That’s a good idea,” John said, the sandy sound being the thing to drag him out of his drawing trance. He pointed with his pencil. “Where’d you get that?”

“Kitchen,” Elton said cluelessly, still rubbing the teabag carcass. “Why?”

John bounded up from his seat and flopped his page face-down so that no one could sneak a peek as he rushed to the kitchen. Returning with the pile of teabags that Elton had left out on the counter, he looked like he’d found a pot of gold. He flung them onto the sofa and threw himself back into his seat, tearing one of them open and sprinkling the contents out onto a fresh sheet of paper.

“Look,” he said, like it was obvious. “Don’t you see? There’s nothing to it. Tea pictures!” He lifted the page, jostled the granules around, and thrusted it below David’s nose. “What does that look like?”

David surveyed the pile of tea. “Why, it looks like me.”

“What?” barked John, hunching closer to get a better look, then he cackled like a maniac. “Holy shit. It does! Well, I never!”

David tore up a teabag and dumped it onto a page, and Elton looked down at his own accidental tea picture, tilting his head to one side, then the other. The black grains on his page didn’t seem to be in any sort of shape other than a formless mass, but they did seem to be vibrating, madly.

“What’s yours look like, Ellie?” asked Marc.

Elton hesitated, still trying to make heads or tails of it. “I’m not sure.”

David raised his head. “Looks like… Leatherface. From _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”_

And suddenly it did. A sudden, profuse fear plunged inside of him. He’d seen that when it came out. And the once was enough.

“Don’t!” Elton jolted his legs, rearranging it. “Don’t be fucking scary.”

David shrugged and returned to his own page. “It did.”

Elton lifted his paper, surface still alive with jumping tea. He poured them onto the floor and leaned forward, watching the scattered specks jump and surge, slowly forming around invisible lines, like they were filling out a predetermined pattern.

“Look at that,” he muttered.

The other two sat forward.

“What is it, boy?” John asked in a twangy American accent of his own, about to stand up.

“No.” Elton held his arm out to stop him. He motioned to the floor, then grabbed another teabag, dispersing its contents, and surely, they did the same thing. “Look! Look at them, they’re moving.”

“Oh, shit,” David said.

“Fuck, they are,” John agreed.

“You guys are losing it.”

“They seriously are,” Elton said, pointing at the large, complex pattern creating itself on the floor. “Look.”

“I don’t see it,” Marc said.

John dumped out more and more tea, and the three that could see what was happening watched its results with fascination. He demolished the entire pile of teabags he’d brought in, and Elton tried to make out what the tea was trying to convey, or spell, but it was indecipherable.

When he raised his head, the four walls were breathing, or dissolving into themselves without actually disappearing, like a blackhole or something. They flowed and beat like a flag, or like a spider’s web or tennis court net caught in a whoosh of wind. Everything was moving. The pinstriped curtains looked like lucid bars of rock, colours dripping off and reforming. Marc’s hair was curling outward then retracting, doing it over and over.

At some point, the antics made their way into the kitchen because everyone felt a unanimous urge to get up and move. Explore. They stood and talked nonsense they could barely remember seconds later while a cooling breeze washed in from a window Marc deemed fit to open.

Marc ordered two pizzas from a place not too far away that did them extra, extra large. 2ft in diameter. He got one pepperoni and the other a mix of vegetables. He opened them both on the too-small kitchen table which made it seem even more like they were standing inside a doll or elf’s house. The pizza toppings curled and unfurled, dancing. Elton couldn’t help goggling at them.

David lifted a slice from the pepperoni one, the base drooping over his hands like it was made of liquid. “I’ve never eaten anything on a trip before.”

“Me either, funnily enough,” John said, picking up a vegetable one. “I bet it’ll be good.”

It smelled amazing and looked insane.

Now was when he realised he had barely eaten a thing all day. Or the day before. His stomach felt like it was eating itself alive. He stopped himself from announcing this. Didn’t want to risk the presumed interrogation. Banter as it might have been.

A little hesitant but starving, Elton lifted one of the pepperoni ones and took a bite. It was fucking good. Probably the best pizza he’d had to date. It was indescribable.

Once everyone had eaten all they could handle, they offered the remaining five slices to Elton, who accepted and cleared both boxes. The fact that they knew he’d eat them made him feel paranoid, but he tried to ignore it and repress it.

_They were just being nice. It doesn’t mean anything. Okay? It doesn’t. It doesn’t. No, it doesn’t._

Everyone stood in a circle, a large cup of the tastiest orange juice (just orange juice) in the universe served by Marc in hand.

Elton couldn’t recall what started off the crazed, non-stop laughter, but as he glanced around everyone in turn, over and over, the room manically spun around them as if they were the painted horses on a warped carousel. It was hilarious and the most fun he’d had in a while. He barely felt the food weighing him down. He came to the conclusion that he appreciated and loved all of them, he loved this, and they were all really good friends that he wanted to spend more time with. Even David. He was actually a lot of fun under that snooty bastard facade.

When they went back to the living room, Marc wanted to dive back into the cocaine since it and alcohol were all he was on. John and David joined him for another line each, and Elton followed, not wanting to miss out.

Elton scrubbed his left nostril. “Imagine the papers getting wind of this do, ey?”

David cracked another Joker smile at that and stretched backwards to flick the curtains back, pretending to be on the lookout.

“I think we’re fine,” he said, returning. “Don’t go getting too wired, now.”

“That’d be a field day for ‘em,” John tacked on.

“John Lennon, Marc Bolan, David Bowie, and Elton John,” Elton said. “All sitting in Marc Bolan’s house doing coke. And LSD.”

“What a headline. Sounds like the start of a bad joke, dunnit?”

“How so?” Marc asked.

“Sounds like an unfunny-funny-kind of jokey-woke,” John replied, completely straight-faced.

Elton attempted to think of an example for Marc. “Like a… an alien, an elf, a queer, and a—” He held his hand towards John lastly. “I don’t know what the fuck you are!”

“A degenerate,” John said.

“Right—and a degenerate—walk into a bar… sort of thing.”

“Oh, I see.” Marc smiled at that. “I’m the elf?”

“You’re appointing yourself as queer, then,” David said, officially erecting his posture.

“Can I be a gnome instead?”

“Well, yeah,” Elton answered David.

“Wearing silly outfits onstage doesn’t make you a queer.”

“No, pretty sure it’s the attraction to other men,” lended Lennon.

David looked at him with thinned eyes.

“Or so I was led to believe.”

“No, you’re right,” Elton certified.

“Sure, but you’ve never came out and said it,” David said. “Why don’t you?”

Elton’s eyes ticked around the faces that were all looking his way. “It’s not… necessary.”

“What, because all the old ladies will stop loving you?”

“Alright, who made you king of the gays? You come out and suddenly everyone has to line up at your door to get qualified, do they?”

“Not at all,” David said stiffly. “I just find it a bit disingenuous, if you’re asking me.”

“I don’t recall anyone asking you,” John laughed.

“Ellie can do it if and when he wants to.”

“Thank you, Marc, but no, it’s nothing like that, David, it’s… I don’t feel like it’s necessary. Not right now in my life, anyway. Maybe at some point, you know, I’m not— And not telling the world doesn’t make me any less gay.”

“But…” David lifted one self-righteous finger. “You’re in a position where the most that’s going to happen to you is a few old geezers’ll stop listening to your records. Meanwhile the kids out there are still getting their heads kicked in. They need all the unification they can get. And _you’ve_ got the privilege to—”

“Hold on, you’re one to talk about silly outfits, aren’t you?” Elton snapped. “Bit rich. Have you not got a list of kooky personas to showcase yours? You don’t even attribute them to yourself.”

“Now, let’s not get into talks of identity, Reg,” David said, with that insultingly toothy grin.

“Jones. Fucking cunt.”

“Now, don’t go getting pissy on me. All I was saying was—I shouldn’t have expected you to understand—was that you should come out. Tell the people! Who cares? And unlike you, Reg, my outfits aren’t a gimmick, you see.”

“So you’re Ziggy when you’re washing the dishes, are you?”

“Can we not start fighting?” Marc said deflatedly. “Please. Everything was so nice.”

“No, Ziggy’s dead,” David said. “It’s art. My costumes are an extension of my artistry.”

“The pair of you are like old ladies and geezers yourselves, bickering like that,” John said, scratching a pencil back over a sheet of paper. “Give over.”

David reclined in his seat, looking like he was dying to continue, but kept his mouth shut.

If he dished out one more ‘Reg,’ he was going to get a black eye. Elton was about to inform him of this, but he too held his tongue.

“Oh, you know who I _wish_ was here as well?” Marc began wistfully, spiriting the conversation elsewhere.

“Who?” Elton, John, and Bowie asked together.

Marc looked between them all, wide-eyed like an owl. “Well, Ringo, of course.”

John let go of a sigh and slapped his hand over his heart.

“He’s a good guy,” Elton commented dispassionately.

“He is,” Marc said.

John repeated Ringo’s name, howling out the last syllable, still stuck in his dog form it seemed.

The LSD mountain had been climbed; they were on the other side of the peak, hiking their way down while the cocaine fought with it like a bear on the trek path.

Elton felt ill. His stomach was convulsing from the nausea, the unease. It was a product of the acid, coke, pizza, and now Bowie’s impudence. He’d never mixed acid and coke before, and he wasn’t sure it was the best idea. He wanted to get up and leave. His thoughts started to panic and spiral. It made him feel slightly deranged. Even knowing cocaine could make your mouth and throat go numb, he felt as though his tongue had vanished somehow or slipped down his throat.

Coming out was something he knew would be a good thing to do. He wanted to. At some point. He had never found the opportune moment or time. It would damage things, in a lot of ways, but that wouldn’t matter. David was right in that it would do more good in the long run. The main obstruction to ever even trying to set the stage for it, apart from society’s climate, was John Reid. There was no way he’d ever permit it. It was he who prohibited any sort of openness about not just their relationship, but Elton’s sexuality full stop.

His brain thought it was the perfect time to remind him of the time David and Mick Jagger did an interview together where the interviewer was basically intruding on a private rendezvous between them—they talked and giggled to one another like they were playing The Telephone Game. And cracked jokes about Elton for no apparent reason, both referring to him as ‘Fat Reg’ the entire time.

Elton’s insides cringed, palms growing sweaty.

Everything still looked like a constantly-animated painting, hard outlines. He had to remind himself to breathe.

David was reclined next to John in the seat opposite him, caught up in buoyant conversation. He always looked quite surreal, but he looked especially strange in that moment. He really looked like an alien. Something otherworldly. Long limbs much like the cat’s he’d drawn earlier, yellow-orange hair slicked back. He was always thin, that was part of his essence, his character, and not a negative thing by any means, but he looked extremely so. He looked bizarre, because of the drugs, but beautiful, because he was. As much as Elton hated to admit it, even to himself, and especially right now, it was overawing. Also intimidating. Elton wished he looked that good. He also wished he could go home.

While Lennon didn’t have that _exact_ same aura about him, he was stick-thin, and therefore he still looked better than Elton ever did. Marc, too. While he wasn’t as slender as he had been in previous years, he still looked insanely good, still tiny. Ethereal and rocking it.

Then there was Elton.

No matter how much coke he did, it never had the same result as it did for people like Bowie, Bolan, or Lennon. That wasn’t why he took it. But it would have been nice.

He felt as though his own body was spilling over, taking up too much of the already rationed space and intruding on others’. He took periods holding his breath and corseting his arms around his middle before realising his arms were just as flabby and embarrassing as a shield, so he dropped them. At the same time, he was hyper-aware of the stretching cuts below his kitschy jumper sleeves. They were taut still, crying at any brazen movement. The healing itch was like fire. Bernie had stopped dressing them a while ago now, time for them to do the rest on their own.

Elton was touching them habitually, wondering if the rest of them were able to tell.

He didn’t know how they could, but the thought was still there. They must have been looking at him in the way he was looking at them in the duration of all of this. David, especially. Probably getting some good laughs out of it, too. Calling him cute earlier was probably a joke. Definitely. Even the compliments about the album. Even John’s choice of choosing to crone ‘Bony Moronie’ was probably a jape.

“Everything good?” Marc innocently asked, curving into view.

Elton drew a breath. He hadn’t noticed when Marc had opted to sit next to him. His hair was still alive, like those aquatic plants. Anemone. It was full of different colours: red, blue, yellow—and rolling, like the ‘Starry Night’ painting.

Elton nodded, arm subconsciously re-fixing itself over his middle. “Yeah. Good.”

Marc didn’t give a response, but seemed to accept that.

“You know, Bernie and I…” Elton laughed a little, attempting to make normal conversation as he watched the distorted advertisement for drain cleaner swirl on TV. “We didn’t know if we’d somehow misunderstood, came to the wrong place.”

“I like living here,” Marc said simply, like he’d heard it a billion times and had his answer rehearsed. He grinned from ear to ear. “It’s the perfect little house, makes me feel like a hedgehog.”

While that sentence didn’t make sense, it also made perfect sense.

Elton nodded affirmatively. “Like a hedgehog.”

“Yes, and Gloria loves it, too. It’ll be the perfect place for our son.”

Oh, yeah. Marc’s girlfriend was pregnant.

“That’s sweet,” Elton said.

“Yeah.” Marc’s smile deepened as his eyes wandered in thought. “Can’t wait.”

“Where do you keep your cars?”

“My cars?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t see any.”

“I don’t keep them here,” Marc said. “That’d just be silly. They’re all in storage.”

Elton laughed at that. “Living here, though… do you not get hounded?”

Marc made a pfft sound. “Sure, a tad. But it doesn’t bother me too much. I don’t mind it.”

“Really?”

“Nuh-uh. I don’t mind pictures. I stand out there and talk to them all, they can take pictures all day. I let ‘em on in sometimes, fix ‘em a cup of tea. That usually weirds the weird ones out quickly and they don’t come back. The sweet ones, I kind of make friends with. They love it.”

Elton laughed at that, too. He was going to ask if he was serious, but knew all too well that he was. Then Marc leaned in in a confidential manner.

“Are you still in love with Bernie?”

Elton’s nerve endings set an immediate fire. “What?”

Marc repeated himself word-for-word, maybe a little quieter, face unmoving, completely sincere.

“Are you still in love with Bernie?”

Elton found himself nodding for a moment longer than necessary, then he heard himself saying, “Yes.”

There was a brief quiet, except for the others talking and the _Scooby Doo_ episode in the background, the skedaddle of Shaggy’s legs pinwheeling before he made a break for it.

“Does he know?”

Elton made an unsure sound, tipping his head. “I don’t know… Doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got a girlfriend,” Elton said, then shook his head, angry at himself for even talking about this. “And he’s not like that… He’s not gay.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, well.” The corner of Elton’s mouth dipped into his cheek and he sighed, anxieties tugging again at his insides like cats playing with yarn. His mouth had dried up. He forced himself to swallow, and it didn’t do a thing. He flopped his head to the side, looking at Marc with a subtle urgency. “Don’t say that to anyone.”

“I won’t.” Marc imitated putting a key in a lock and turning it, then held up his imaginary key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Elton gave him a smile he hoped conveyed ‘thank you,’ then looked back at the other two, almost-whispering, “How’d you know?”

“It’s obvious,” Marc said without missing a beat. They looked back at one another. “It’s obvious you’re in love with him, man. Trust me, I know about these things.”

It was obvious. He just knew. Oh, _God._

“I’ve known for years. And hey, don’t worry about a thing. The universe has its ways, man. Tides change.”

John and David slinked out the back door to smoke cigarettes out of respect for Marc’s no smoking inside policy, and Marc and Elton followed them to be able to sit outside in the cool night air for a few moments. They sat down on the step, John and David gabbled to each other on the ground, yet it was still so peaceful and quiet. The pavement below his feet was ice-cold as if it were winter. All of the stars looked like they were on a net in the sky, they were all connected with a thin doily-like pattern.

Elton couldn’t stop thinking about what Marc had said.

It was obvious to him that he was in love with Bernie. In love. Obvious. Someone he rarely spent a lot of time with. Obvious. Obvious from the exchange at the front door. From the passing mention of him in conversation. Obvious. His secret, that he didn’t know he had, was obvious. He was _in love_ with him.

How clear-cut, how fucking unambiguous must it have been to John? Or even Bernie?

Elton shuddered at the thought.

Elton had never thought about being in love with him. Somehow, it had never crossed his mind. He was his best friend. He knew he loved him, but he never really considered that it was being _in_ love. But it made sense. Perfect sense. Worrying sense. That was exactly what it was. That was what it had been all this time. Maybe admitting it, out loud, was what made it so… obvious.

What did that mean, then? Tides were most certainly not going to change. He was supposed to be in love with John. That meant that made _him_ the asshole. Not John. And that meant that John had every right, and excuse, to be the way he was. He could tell. _He knew, too_.

There was a half-repressed knock at the front door and everyone looked to each other.

“I’ll get it.” Marc got up and scampered back through the kitchen.

He returned seconds later with Bernie, strategically weaving around the small spaces.

“Bernie,” Elton breathed, and his stomach dipped, glancing quickly at the impishly grinning Marc behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Bernie looked at the others, then back at him. “Hey, Reg.”

The name coming from Bernie’s mouth stung, and Elton was sure he heard either David or John hiss with laughter. Had to be David.

“I mean Elton _,_ ” Bernie laughed. “I said I was picking you up, remember?”

“Oh, yeah…”

“Seems like you guys had a good night.” Bernie jerked his thumb behind him, referring, probably, to the mass of paper and tea on the floor he’d passed on the way in.

“Sure did,” John said, exhaling a cloud.

“Yeah,” Elton said. “It’s been… good.”

“Well, are you ready to go?” Bernie looked down at his watch. “It’s almost half two.”

“No way… Yeah, I’m— Give me a second.”

He got up and went inside to fetch his shoes.

“Wait!” John hurtled in after him and scrambled through the sheets of paper strewn everywhere. He plucked one and held it out. “Take this. I drew it for you, especially.”

Elton pushed his sock back into his shoe and took it from him. “Is that the one you spent half the night working on?”

“Yeah!”

Elton smiled, looking down at the drawing of a fluffy dog with glasses, lovingly titled with ‘Eltie the Sheltie’ at the top.

“Thanks, John.”

“No trouble. Keep it as a memento of me, since I hardly get seein’ you.”

+

Bernie pulled his seat belt over, then adjusted his rearview mirror. “That’s some line-up for a party.”

Elton clicked his in. “Right?”

Bernie laughed, then widened his eyes, referencing Bowie. “How’d things go with him?”

“Oh, fine. We actually got on perfectly well, at the start.”

Bernie lowered the volume of The Temptations’ ‘My Girl’ on the radio, and said, “Oh, no!”

“Yeah, well, we ended up having a bit of a scrap, but it was nothing serious. Silly old stuff.”

“You know what it is? The two of you are fish too big to be in the same pond.”

That was a very Bernie way of putting it. It made sense.

“Suppose that is the case.”

“So, what did you four do all night? Seemed like it’d been eventful. Were you drawing?”

“They were. I didn’t draw anything.” Elton gave a genuinely tired sigh, scraping at the cuticles of his nails. “We didn’t get up to much… We ended up dropping acid.”

Bernie shifted gear, fast, like pulling a trigger. “Fuck off.”

“Yeah, it was crazy. I’m fucking tired.”

“That is crazy,” Bernie confirmed, laughing with disbelief. “Imagine the papers finding out about that, huh? Elton John, John Lennon, David Bowie, and Marc Bolan doing acid together.”

“That’s what I said,” Elton laughed, withdrawing his hand from where it was pinching his leg.

“Are you still tripping?”

“A little. Got the most of it over me, I’d say.”

He really didn’t want to hear about what Bernie had done with his girl. No matter how miniscule of a detail, no matter how innocent. But he didn’t want to seem like he didn’t care, either.

“So, what did you do? With Juniper.”

“Oh, nothing in comparison to that,” Bernie said, looking behind as he spun the steering wheel to reverse. “Absolutely nothing in comparison, Reg, I can’t top that. I can’t _get over_ that, actually… How was it? I know you’ve done it before, but did you learn anything about the true meaning of life this time around? Discover anything profound?”

It wouldn’t ruin everything if he told him. Elton knew that much. But it might push him away, wedge _something_ between them. He couldn’t tell him. Not now.

Ever.

Elton shook his head. “Nothing profound.”


	11. Don’t Let Me Sleep Here

+

John had booked ten shows in Amsterdam to promote ‘Brown Dirt.’ That was a small amount to him, but feeling a little rusty on performing, it seemed like a lot for Elton to undertake. 

A fresh band was pooled together, some of the regular line-up, some from line-ups previous. The secret formula always worked. The secret was to have no formula at all. A dozen rehearsals were done, and like that it was dubbed the _Captain Fantastic_ tour.

Amsterdam was a bit of an obscure place to choose to do it out of the blue, but Elton had no reason to make a remark and definitely no reason to complain. It was, after all, one of the biggest party capitals in the world. Since dipping his toes back into Quicksand and then commencing with an unofficial ban of the place, he had found himself becoming ravenous. Yearning.

He hadn’t gotten his head around his comprehension of his feelings towards Bernie. For Bernie. It was true and there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that much. He had written about it in his journal on more than one occasion, never reading over it sober, and throwing it back behind the bed, deeming that its resting place now. It wasn’t coming to Amsterdam. The last part he could recall writing was a sort of pep talk to himself about throwing himself into his work, into this tour, and hoping that would at least help him take his mind off it.

God, it had to.

All of it was there in plain sight. Every time Bernie looked at him, he felt it. Every time Bernie smiled at him, he felt it. Every time Bernie did something sweet for him, like make him food, or cut the wispy strands from the back of his hair, he felt it. He felt it. He felt it. It hit him in the chest first, every time, and then covered him all over. Like electricity in his bones. Each bolt hitting harder than the last. Sometimes it left him dumbstruck. Sometimes it left him reeling, only able to cope with the profuseness of it all by crying under the bed covers in the dark. Every time his instinct was to hide away, run away. Bury it. But he couldn’t. This was Bernie. Bernie. Someone he couldn’t, wouldn’t run away from. This was his life. 

The only thing Elton had explicitly called for was no large venues—5,000 people, tops. He wanted them more intimate, so that he could see the faces of most of the people he was playing to. It felt better. More like how it used to. It was also a hell of a lot less pressure. A few radio and television interviews about the album were slotted in, too. And since the show was on the road, John had been in good spirits, and luckily, kept to Elton’s venue request. All of the shows were in smallish venues throughout the city.

Standing backstage on the first night, drink in hand, schoolyard nerves sank in. It was either the initial sound of the crowd beyond whistling and shouting louder than repeated gunfire when the lights dropped that shot him in the stomach first, or the alcohol he had let trickle a blazing trail into the empty chasm that was his guts. It felt like he was being catapulted into an active volcano against his every will, even though he had done this same thing ten billion times before. Catapulted into the unknown. He slung the other half of the gin back, its fumes lingering in his nostrils as he made his way onstage. When he was onstage, time moved swiftly. It was over and gone within the blink of an eye. At each of the ten shows, as he stood in the heat of the crowd’s applause at the end of the set, past anxieties turned glory, there were a few moments when time froze, sounds blurred, and he rediscovered that this was what he lived for.

This was it.

It made something inside of him light up, made him feel truly alive. It was better than anything.

There was a second moment at the end of each of the shows, too, as the lights cut and he made his way out the back of the stage, that another realisation dawned. He had to return to the feeling of lacking, and pointlessness. Darkness. The real unknown. He was only able to quell that thought by taking to the streets of Amsterdam each night, indulging in the city’s overabundance of pleasurable offerings—from its cocaine that he sent John out to find like a sighthound; to its alcohol and nightclubs; to its now-legal distribution of marijuana from coffeeshops, which, from the moment John informed him that the shows he had booked were in Amsterdam, he’d made it an objective to take full advantage of.

Bernie joined him and the rest of his entourage a few times, but he was more interested in seeing the sights and tourist points, making time to do so during the day when Elton was trying to catch up on sleep. Elton missed his company a little, but was mostly glad, because it made him less of a focus point. After the final show, he and the band headed out yet again.

“Hey!” Elton ran from the bar to catch up with his band that were five steps ahead but as merrily drunk and high as he was. He slung an arm around Davey’s neck and another around Nigel’s.

“What?” Davey stopped, shaking his long, sandy hair from his face.

“Where’re we off to next?”

“I don’t know about you, man, but I’m wrecked. I’m heading to bed.”

“You’re heading to bed?” Elton squawked. “Oh, please. We’re only getting started! Don’t leave me. What kinda rockstar are you?”

Davey stifled a yawn. “Knackered one. Count me out, bro.”

Elton looked to Nigel.

“I’m off, too,” he said. “We’re leaving early tomorrow.”

“Well, _today_ , now,” Dee tacked on.

“Oh, yeah.”

“God, are any one of you still up for it? I’ll go mad if I have to go back to that hotel room. Come on, it’s the last night.”

“No,” the rest of them collectively decided.

“Fine, then.” Elton crossed his arms, acting more sullen than he truly was. He looked to Caleb. “You didn’t say no, you still good?”

“Yeah!” Caleb said. “I’m game. You only live once, right? Let’s have it.”

Elton unclipped his arms from Davey and Nigel and slung one around Caleb instead. “Fucking knew I could count on you. Knew I got you back for a reason.”

They bumped some coke that Elton had a full stash of in his blazer’s inner pocket, and the others split.

Sucked to be them.

Elton and Caleb ended up in a high-end bar aglow with firefly-like lights, a lot classier than the last place, and railed more lines and sank more drinks than they really knew what to do with.

“Elton! Over here!”

Elton pulled his face up from the trance the spiralled pattern on the table was pulling him into, eyes wandering. They landed on Keith Moon, who was hopping around like a mad jackrabbit with a more reserved Ringo Starr at his hip, and his face split with a grin.

“Hello! What’re you two cats doing here?”

“Same thing you are, I assume,” Ringo said, and made himself comfy on the beetle-shiny leather. Keith followed.

“Oh, my Starrs,” Elton gushed. “And Moon. Join us, fellas. Where’re the rest of you? Do we not have any more Whos or Beatles?”

“Fucked off somewhere,” Keith said, snatching a glass that had a taste of brandy still in the bottom, letting it drip to his tongue.

“The Beatles aren’t here, bozo,” Ringo said. “But The Who bailed on us, can you believe? The fucking Who.”

“Well, I’ll be. Same thing happened here.” Elton pointed between himself and Caleb, who was nose-deep in another drink. “Lost souls. The rest of them quit.”

“That just leaves more for us lively lot,” Ringo said. “We can hack anything, regardless of if it’s four in the morning or not.”

“Is that the time?”

“Roundabout.”

“Well, you're exactly right,” Elton said, then swatted Moon’s hand. “And don’t you be drinking our leftovers.” He raised his own hand to hail a waiter. “Let me buy you something. Only the best for you.”

More alcohol was guzzled, and the new additions each brought their own supply of white powder. Elton and his new motley crew were set for at least the next couple of hours.

“Can I ask you,” Caleb set a heavy elbow on the table, woodpecking his finger at Ringo Starr, “a question?”

Elton drumrolled his hands on the table. “A first-time-use coke-inspired question! Let’s hear it.”

“Fire away, my friend,” Ringo said.

“I’ve always wondered this, always wanted to know. Right. See for the Sgt. Pepper album?”

Ringo frowned. “The what?”

“The Sgt. Pepper and the Lonely Hearts Club Band album.”

“Never heard of it.”

Elton and Keith cackled instantly; Keith hit the table like a sea lion, making the glasses jump and spin.

“What are you talking about,” Caleb said, “it’s your own album?”

Ringo shook his head heavily, lifted his drink, and slurred, “Nope. You’ve got the wrong man, you have. I don’t know about any peppers.”

Caleb, eyes pinned wide with confusion, turned to Elton who was still unable to breathe, laughing folded over, tears leaving the creases of his eyes.

“Am I going mad?” Caleb asked.

“You’re not,” Elton said, cheeks tight. “Dear me. But he’s fucking gone. He’s out of it. For the love of God, tell me I’m not as fucking zonked as he is. I’m going to cry.”

Caleb threw himself back against the seat. “Thank fuck. No, you’re grand, Elton, I don’t think either of us have the capacity to go that far.”

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Elton said, lifting his glass. “Don’t tell Bernie about this escapade, Cale. Or any of our other ones where he wasn’t present, for that matter.”

“Why not?”

Elton shrugged, drinking, then set the empty glass down. “Not to be deceitful. Mother _knows_ I drink, he just… overthinks things. Wouldn’t want him worrying.”

“Sure, I won’t say a word.”

“If he knew I’d done as much coke as I have tonight, and drank as much as this, the poor thing would have heart failure.” Elton wheezed with another laugh, pointing at Ringo who was still blissfully unaware of anything funny. “He’d think I ended up like _him_.”

Elton made it back to the hotel at 8am, staggering into the room he and John were sharing, still giggling to himself. John was fully dressed, sitting at the table, finished breakfast in front of him, eyes bleary from sleep.

“There you are,” he said.

“It’s me.”

John smiled and poured another glass of orange juice. “Have fun?”

“I had a gay old time. You should’ve came.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Definitely next time.” Elton pulled out a chair and sat down, slurping down his orange juice in three swift gulps. “We need to come back here.”

“We do. Oh, and great shows these past few days, pet. All of them were good, but those last ones were something else.”

“Thank you, darling,” Elton said brightly, setting his hand on his. “I really appreciate it. I did my very best.”

“You did.” John pulled his hand out, setting it on top instead. “It’s always been me behind you since day one. Hasn’t it, pet?”

“Well, you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

John smirked, wiping away his juice moustache. “And you know that I’m only ever honest. I mean, I seen your potential from the very start, didn’t I? I’ve always been the one supporting you a hundred percent. And I’ve always been able to tell when you’ve put your all into something, and when you’re able to give it all again. Which is why I booked you another gig.”

“Here?”

“No, at home.”

“Oh. Alright. When? Where?”

“Wembley. Tonight.”

Suddenly, Elton needed another drink. Or five.

“Wembley? John, that holds about ninety thousand people.”

“Wow, I never knew you could count that high.”

“No, I’m serious. I don’t feel up to it yet. Especially not _tonight_.”

“Of course you are. Did you not hear me? I can tell you’re up to it. After those shows? You’re back in it, Elton, darling. Top of your game. You don’t have a single thing to worry about.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to say, and I’m grateful you think that of me, I really am, but I don’t want to do it. Not yet.”

John’s countenance changed.

“Well, you’re doing it.”

“No, John, I told you. No big shows.”

“You’re doing it. Don’t be stupid.”

Elton’s hand tightened around the still-frosty, empty glass. “Really? Who’s making me? Because I’m pretty sure if I say no and don’t turn up, it won’t be happening.”

“I am,” John said, standing. “I’m making you. Get over yourself, it’s one bloody show. Besides, it’s already done now. And nobody’s counting on you for anything, Elton, you’re not the only one performing. The only person you’d be fucking over by refusing to do it now is yourself. You’d look like an asshole. And maybe that wouldn’t be such a far cry from the truth.”

Elton’s heart sank further and further.

“Joni Mitchell, Donovan, and The Beach Boys are all on before you, so if you end up doing a shit job, which, judging from the state of you now, you probably will—most of the people will have already left by the time you’re on anyway. So, no harm done. Don't forget who made you who you are, you wouldn’t even be here right now in this fancy hotel if it weren’t for me.”

On that note, John left the room, and Elton headed to the wine rack.

+

Pretty much to spite John, or perhaps to ensure John’s prophecy about doing a shit job, Elton drank more and snorted more than usual before hitting the stage at Wembley.

And straight after The Beach Boys’ set, as he hyped himself up to go on, as if done purposefully to spite him back, the heavens opened; rain completely pissed down on the stage and equipment. Since the arena was already filled with people, the workers refused to move the roof over. It wouldn’t have completely sheltered them anyway—it was only partial, but it could have done something. That was annoying, but Elton persevered, getting drenched to his very skin almost instantly.

Still, the crowd roared at his mere presence. And as he stood before them, he made the impromptu decision to scrap the setlist they’d been using in Amsterdam to instead wield his entire 13-song latest album over his hour-long section, from start to finish. The band were a little confused to start, but rolled with it and tried to keep up. Elton had seen it, at first, as a bold and brave decision, some sort of ‘up yours’ to John. But, in a turn of events, the crowd did not receive it well—at all. Most of them started booing about 20 minutes in, letting him know that it was in fact quite a foolish decision, and then, as John foretold, a significant portion of them began to filter out. He carried on, but left the stage feeling deflated. It was his own fault, but he chalked it up to them simply not knowing the songs and not because he didn’t put on a good performance. He didn’t fancy the thought of letting them down. John said nothing during the time they spent loitering at the backstage buffet, only shooting occasional steely glares.

As soon as their shoes hit the gravel of their own house’s driveway, John had found his voice and a multitude of things for it to say, while Bernie trailed behind like a child after his arguing parents.

John thwacked the car door shut and Pete took off around the corner.

“Why would you do that?”

Elton walked ahead into the house, overcome with an intoxicating giddiness, from the wine he’d had in the car and also now-three-days’ lack of sleep.

“Elton. Answer me right now. That was a fucking disaster. Can you hear me? You sabotaged your own fucking show.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Not that bad?”

“You said it yourself. Remember? It didn’t matter if I was shit. No harm done.”

“You weren’t just shit, you played the entirety of an album that basically no one’s fucking heard yet. Why’d you do that? You purposefully fucked it up.”

“Thought it didn’t affect anyone but me?”

“Exactly,” John said. “ _I_ don’t care.”

“Sure seems like you do.”

“No. I don’t. The only concern I have, as your _manager_ , is that it’s going to make you look bad. Which, in turn, makes me look bad.”

“Trust me.” Elton twirled onto the stairs. “Nobody’s worrying about you, darling.”

John grabbed him by his jacket’s collar. “You went out there, made an ass of yourself, and played a list of miserable-as-shit songs.” He let go, pushing him, uttering a frustrated sigh. Elton spun his arms rapidly to avoid tripping. Balancing, he looked at Bernie over John’s shoulder, who looked as if he were about to say something, it was on the tip of his tongue, whatever it was. “Why’d you not play fucking ‘Crocodile Rock’ or something? _At least_ , for Christ’s sake.”

Bernie was still staring back, and Elton brushed make-believe debris from his jacket to portray being unfazed.

“Gets the album out there, does it not?” he said, planting a sturdy grip on the bannister.

“Not really. It’ll leave people thinking the album’s shit.”

“Can’t play ‘Crocodile,’ anyway,” Elton said. “Caleb said he’d only come back to play if we didn’t do that one. Thinks it’s too poppy or overproduced or something, I don’t know. It sickens him. So, I said that was fine. Need to keep that promise to him.”

“You need to keep that promise to him? Since when does that matter to you? That’s fucking stupid, that’s one of your most successful songs. Why would you do that? We don’t need him to play, we can get someone else. You need to sing that song.”

Elton let go of a breath. He didn’t want to argue with him about Caleb’s place in the band. And, frankly, he was growing sick of ‘Crocodile Rock’ as well. He didn’t dare to say that, though. He excused himself from the conversation, like a cornered mouse, by darting up the stairs.

“Alright, fuck off to your bedroom, then! Get high, that solves everything.”

“You’re right. It does.”

He spent the entirety of the night—making it his fourth sleepless night—eating painkillers like tic tacs, doing coke, and drinking; railing another line every time the high lost momentum, washing it back with cheap vodka while John slept sporadically next to him, waking up every so often to tell him to go to sleep.

At 3am, Elton wondered what Bernie was doing, then realised he’d probably fallen asleep ages ago. The next time he looked at the clock, scrubbing the back of his hand against his backed-up nose in an attempt to dislodge some of the coked-up mucus, the clock read 10:06am. He wasn’t sure if it was because of his shitty day, the drug and alcohol mix, or the growing lack of sleep, but he felt a horrible tenseness, on edge. It had been creeping up on him, along with a headache that shot down, relentlessly tightening his jaw at its hinges.

“Fuck.”

Time went by quickly when you were wired out of your fucking mind.

He noticed a faint buzzing, its volume rising and falling. It was like it was passing through one ear and out the other. He wondered, at first, if it was his mind playing tricks. Then he heard it again. He turned quickly, his brain feeling like it was the wax inside a lava lamp, knocking around in fluid. When the flash of pain subdued, his wide eyes wandered to find the source of the sound.

John made a disgruntled sound and rolled over to face him, squinting.

“What the fuck are you doing now?”

“That noise.”

“It’s called a fly,” John said, voice still sleep-ridden yet as snarky as ever. He pointed out the blue bottle wisping around overhead. “There. Probably attracted to _you_.” He turned over again, unbothered. “You reek.”

Elton purposefully paid no attention, watching the fly zap around instead. Losing track of it one minute, only to hear it vehemently droning by his ear again the next. It was strange.

The thought that it was a tiny camera sent out to watch him specifically, what he was doing, crossed his mind. It was insane… but not impossible. The entire room looked strange in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It had the regular distortion that came with being drunk, _and_ something else. Like a dream, or time standing still or running backwards. Nothing was dramatically different, nothing was obviously changed. But there was something particularly odd about it, even in the air, that made his skin crawl. 

He shook his head to dispel his train of thought, and when it didn’t work, his hand glided back to the razor on the nightstand as if by magnetic force, not a conscious decision of his own and probably the most streamline movement he had made in hours, dicing up two more lines of coke. He snorted them back-to-back, then paused to grind up two more, using that time to catch his breath before inhaling them straight after.

“Have you been on a bender all night?” John asked, not moving from his back-facing position.

Elton sniffed loudly in response to that, looking back to locate the fly. He watched it land on the window, then stood up to go over and let it out. He would’ve squashed it, but Bernie had brought him out of that habit. It wasn’t really doing any real harm, and he did suppose, if it wasn’t a camera, it deserved to live as much as anything else. If it came back, that would be another story. He’d know it wasn’t an insect for certain.

He studied it for a few seconds before fully deciding on opening the window and freeing it, willing it to do _something_ that let him know it had mechanical innings rather than guts. A flashing light. A sound. Anything. If it didn’t, then he could let it go. Then again, if it was a camera, specifically one sent to watch him, it would be purposefully refraining from doing anything that gave itself away in his presence. He had to kill it to find out. Bernie wouldn’t know.

Stopping himself from teetering, he took one step, feeling his head instantaneously go light as he did, blackness beginning to spot his vision. He attempted to steady himself, parting his feet.

“What have you been doing this whole time? Who does coke and sits in bed?”

Elton let his question fade into the background and hobbled to the dresser. He propped himself up on it, leaned his head against his arms, and closed his eyes tight. He stayed there, telling himself it’d stop him from falling, it was a good idea to lean there, but when he opened his eyes again, he was met with the view of the ceiling fan listlessly spinning above him. The sound of the blades chopping the air swished in time with his heartbeat, and the more he focused on it, they seemed to speed up with it, too. He didn’t remember or feel himself fall backwards, but he had, and the loss of time was disconcerting. He sat up on his hands, heart palpitating, a noticeable slick of sweat coating every inch of his body. His chest felt like it was constricting his lungs and no matter how deeply he tried to breathe, it seemed like they were taking in no air.

He gasped, splaying his hands against the wooden floor, trying desperately to clutch at something, anything. Black spots continued to cloud and eventually tunnel his vision.

“You idiot. Get up.” John’s voice, from somewhere behind him. “What’s wrong now? Stop being so dramatic. What’s wrong with you?”

“I can’t,” Elton managed, shaking his head slowly. He spluttered. “I can’t breathe. I can’t see.”

“Yes, you can. Get up off the floor.”

“I can’t. I can’t breathe. I _can’t_ breathe.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

Somehow, Elton turned himself over and crawled to the end of the bed, clinging to it as he tried to drag himself to his feet. It was like his limbs were working against him. He was going to die. He was bound to. This was it. And that thought wasn’t as comforting as he’d previously imagined. His heartbeat thumped rapidly in his ears. He screamed, and then John shot to his feet, coming to stand over him. Elton screamed again.

“Quit it.” John dug at his thigh with his foot. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Help. Please. I’m going to die…” He tried to close his throat, tried to will it into shutting up completely, to prevent another scream from coming out. It didn’t work. He screamed. He screamed as loud as he could. “Help me, John! I’m dying. Oh God, I’m dying.”

“No, you aren’t.”

Elton yelled, slipped off the edge of the bed, back onto the floor. He slammed his hands against the panels as he kept trying and failing to inhale a satisfying breath.

“I can’t fucking breathe! I’m going to die, somebody help me! Please…”

“If you were dying, would that not make you happy? Is that not what you always say you want?”

Elton slumped, cheek pressing into the cold wood. He pummeled it with his fist a few more times, screaming, though he was no longer sure if there was any sound escaping him. It was pointless, anyway, to scream. It was pointless to bang on the floor. From below his shirt, his belly stuck and peeled rapidly from the wood, again and again, the way a rabbit on the roadside’s did in its last moments. Panic trying to kickstart a breath. His chest was tight. His ears felt clogged, filled with a tedious ringing. He began to cry.

“Help me…”

“You don’t need help.”

“Help, please…” he gasped, more tears swelling behind his eyes. “Please help me. _John.”_

“Get up.”

“Please…”

John’s feet stepped out of view and Elton let go of a winded whine, smacking his hand into the floor one more time. He sobbed, though no tears escaped him. Convulsive gasps and snivels. The bedsprings creaked above his head. He was going to die. Alone. John was in the room, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t give a shit. He was going to die alone.

He hoped that whatever God was listening to his convoluted thoughts would have some mercy on him, forgive him for every wrong or bad thing he’d ever done. Painfully, he flopped onto his back in an attempt to straighten out his airway, get a breath, and a terrible, guttural rasp left him.

The door busted open, making his muscles tense even harder.

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

_Bernie._

Elton’s eyes traced around in an attempt to find him, sweat-struck back sticking and peeling from the floor. Seeing Bernie, he lifted his trembling arm towards him.

Bernie shouted at John: “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”

“What the fuck did _I_ do? I did nothing. He was up all night doing coke. Now he’s being overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?” Bernie rushed to kneel beside Elton, placing a hand on his hammering chest. “Are you kidding? Elton. Elton, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He brushed Elton’s damp hair from his forehead, then Elton seized Bernie’s hand, squeezing it like a vice.

“Can you hear me?”

Elton managed to nod.

“I’m about to die, Bernie.” He gasped. “I’m dying.”

“You are not going to die. I’m going to help you, alright? I promise, you’re not going to die.”

Elton doubted that. He grasped his hand tighter. “Please… Don’t go. Oh, God.”

“I won’t,” Bernie said. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He looked to John. “What’re you doing, man? Call a fucking ambulance.”

“He doesn’t nee—”

“Call an ambulance. Now.”

John let go of a long breath before begrudgingly lifting the phone.

“Don’t leave,” Elton whispered.

“I’m not,” Bernie swore. “I’m not leaving.”

“Please. Please don’t fucking leave me. I’m going to die.”

“I won’t.” Bernie lifted his hand, pressing it to his chest. “I won’t, look, I’m right here.”

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“You aren’t going to die.”

“You don’t know that, you don’t—”

“Hello. Yeah, can we get an ambulance out here please?” John spoke candidly. “My client—I’m his manager. He’s been up all night taking cocaine—yeah—and now he’s on the floor. He collapsed. Uh. Yes, he’s breathing.”

“Hardly,” Bernie called out. “Tell them he can hardly fucking breathe!”

“That’s his friend. Yeah, he’s struggling to catch his breath. I doubt he _needs_ an ambulance, but—”

“Give me that.” Bernie pulled his hands from Elton’s, standing up. “Give me the phone.”

Elton’s heart raced harder. “Bernie…”

“Two seconds.” Bernie’s voice softened. “I’ll be right back. John’s not competent enough to talk to them properly.” He snatched the phone that John was willingly giving up and cradled the receiver between his shoulder and cheek. “Hello?”

Elton screamed, fear escalating. He looked to the window, remembered the fly, and screamed again. He didn’t know where it was. What it was. This was going to be on the news. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“What’s he shouting for?”

“They’re going to see everything,” Elton muttered. “Oh, my— Or they’re gonna fucking kill me or something. I don’t— This is—”

“He’s scared, John.”

“He’s out of his fucking mind. He’s looking out the window, shut the blinds or something. He’s giving me a sore fucking head.”

“No, don’t,” Elton pleaded. “Don’t make it dark. Don’t.”

“Yes, I’m his friend,” Bernie said hurriedly, pulling the phone as far as the cord allowed it to stretch so that he could crouch down beside Elton again. Elton could barely see him, he was out of view, but felt him lift his hand. He grabbed it hard, probably painfully. Bernie squeezed back.

“He does need an ambulance,” he said. “Yes. Yes, he’s conscious, but he can’t get a breath, and he’s— he’s freaking out.” He was trying to stay calm, though his panic was slipping through the cracks. He gave the address, and ran his thumb over the backs of Elton’s fingers. “Can you get it here quickly, please? No. Please, just— Can you please get them to come as soon as they can? He might have overdosed, I don’t _know._ He’s lying on his back. Yes.”

Bernie set the phone to one side to help Elton sit upright, propping his back against the side of the bed, then taking hold of his hand again. Elton’s entire body was shivering, his hair and clothes pasted to him with cold sweat. He tried for a breath and shut his eyes.

Bernie scrambled for the phone.

“You still there? Okay, well, I got him to sit up. No, I set him up. He’s still hyperventilating, I don’t know what— Okay. Okay. Elton.” He shook his hand. “Look at me, try to breathe like this.”

His eyes snapped open. Bernie inhaled deeply into his diaphragm and exhaled slowly. Elton knew he couldn’t attempt to mimic that right now. He shook his head quickly.

“Can’t.”

“He says he can’t. Right. Okay. Well— Okay. Great. Thank you, thank you. They’re on their way,” he said, giving his hand a squeeze, and the first glimpse of hope arrived on his features. “Okay? They’re going to be here real soon. Just keep trying to breathe. You’re doing fine.”

Sirens whirred about ten minutes later, hard red lights flashed through the window. John left the room to answer the door. Three paramedics bustled inside moments later, setting their clunky equipment down and swarming around him. The intensity only further spurred Elton’s panic. They attempted to talk to him, but the words didn’t stick. He caught snippets—words like ‘cardiac’ and ‘arrest’.

Overrun with terror, and before he had time to try to fully comprehend everything, or anything, they tore his shirt open, buttons snapping off, and hastily shaved tiny spots out of his chest hair to affix a load of cold sensors.

One of them, who didn’t seem to be doing very much, was staring at him. Mouth open.

Elton closed his eyes again to try to remove himself from the nightmare.

“Elton.” Bernie gave his hand a shake.

Elton opened his eyes, and Bernie gestured to the paramedic who was on the floor with them, making intense eye contact.

“Are you experiencing any pain?”

Elton stared for a moment, computing what he was feeling. He shook his head.

“No pain in your chest? Your arms? Neck?”

He shook his head again. The tightness in his chest had died a little. “I just… can’t breathe.”

“Okay. Try to breathe along with me. Can you do that?” The paramedic mirrored Elton’s uncontrolled pace of breathing first, and Elton watched him, confused. He gradually slowed his breath and Elton attempted to copy him. He looked around everyone in the room one at a time, focusing on their faces rather than the pace at which his lungs were fighting. His eyes met John’s, who was standing to the back by the door, arms folded, as he shook his head like what he was witnessing was completely abhorrent. Laughable. The wall behind him was moving like it was breathing, similar to how it was in Marc Bolan’s house, though the feeling this gave him was a lot more sinister. Like the fly, the house itself, John, all of them, were in on this and caused this to happen.

Elton’s breathing hitched, picking up again as he yelled uncontrollably.

Bernie’s head snapped in the direction he was looking.

“Get out of here.” John didn’t listen. “Someone get him out, please.”

John then turned on his heel and left on his own accord, a paramedic following after him.

Elton glanced around at the other three walls. They were all doing the same, almost closing in, and the black dots that were once swarming his vision were now darting around like ash after a volcanic eruption. Like flies. He didn’t know what they were. He wasn’t sure if they were actually flies, eye floaters, or something else entirely. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what was happening.

“Just focus on me for now, okay?” the paramedic said, then went through the breathing technique again while Bernie continued to stroke his hand until Elton’s breathing returned to a more steady pace.

“Do you know your name?” the paramedic asked. “Do you know who you are?”

Elton stared at him, chest still rising and depleting erratically. His thoughts were coming at him disorganised and frazzled. He looked at Bernie then back at the paramedic. He shook his head weakly.

Bernie looked scared. “What?”

“Okay. Do you know where you are at all?”

He shook his head again.

“Well, yeah, but… not really,” he said after a moment, eyes trailing after the bugs in the air. Strange shadows lurching in the corners of his vision made themselves known. Terror widened his eyes. “I don’t know…”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Cocaine,” he laughed. “Cocaine happened.”

“How much cocaine did you take?”

“A lot. All night. I’ve been doing it for days straight.”

“How many days?”

“Three.”

“You were up for three days straight taking cocaine?”

“No, four. Four days. And drinking.”

“Drinking…?”

“Oh, so much.”

“Can you remember what you were drinking?”

“Vodka. Mostly vodka. Today, vodka.”

“Anything else?”

Elton swallowed, shaking his head. He didn’t look at Bernie as he attempted to rectify, adding, “I was doing shows, I was performing. I’m a— It’s just—”

“Then what happened?”

“I think I ended up taking too much in one go.”

“How much is too much?”

“I did four lines… in a row, blacked out. I fell.”

“You fell?”

Elton nodded. “On the floor. When I came ‘round, I couldn’t see. Or breathe. Then they called you, and now all these things—”

The paramedic looked at him over his glasses. “What things?”

“Those,” Elton said, dragging his finger to point.

“What are they?”

“Weird flies?” He attempted to waft at them. “I don’t know. How am I supposed to know what they are? They weren’t here the whole time. Well, there was maybe one… earlier, but not… not this many. I don’t know what they are. I don’t understand.”

The paramedic said something, but Elton didn’t catch it, so stared at him blankly.

“Were you trying to cause yourself harm, sir?”

He heard that time. Elton looked to Bernie. Surely, he didn’t—

“Answer him,” Bernie said, giving an assuring nod.

“No,” Elton answered breathlessly. “I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t trying to cause yourself harm?” the paramedic said.

Elton’s face crumpled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself.”

The paramedic looked down at his scarred arm.

“That’s from a while ago,” Bernie said. “He hasn’t done it since.”

The paramedic and Bernie exchanged a look, no words. Then Elton and Bernie did the same.

“Do you have suicidal thoughts?”

Growing increasingly sceptical, Elton decided not to tell the truth.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, if that’s what you’re asking me. I don’t want to hurt myself, like Bernie said, I haven’t in a while. I don’t want to die, I’m fucking tired.”

“You don’t think hospital would help you right now?”

“No.” Elton grimaced at the thought. “God, no.”

“Would you say you use drugs to cope with things?”

He stared at him. He didn’t know how, when, or _why_ Bernie had said something like that to him. But he had.

“No. Don’t be daft, it’s just for fun. Why would you say that, Bernie?”

“Say what?” Bernie whispered.

“That I’m using drugs to cope. Cope with what?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“They’re going to want to lock me up if they think that. Why would you tell them that?”

“I didn’t!”

Elton looked to the paramedic for clarification.

“He didn’t say that to us,” he said. “We just have to ask you things like this, don’t worry.”

“Well, that’s not why I take drugs,” Elton grumbled. “Everyone does them. Literally, everyone I know. Do you know who I am?”

Bernie let go of a sigh, shutting his eyes.

The paramedic looked surprised.

“I’m fine. I don’t need hospital, or— or anything like that. I just needed help to breathe, and now I can, so your help is no longer needed. Thanks.”

“You know where you are, then, don’t you?” Bernie prompted.

“Yes. Of course I do.”

“Where are you?”

Elton took another look around. He did know, geographically. It just didn’t feel right.

“My house.”

Bernie nodded, but shared a glance with the paramedic.

“And you know your name,” he said.

Elton nodded, and Bernie raised his eyebrows.

Elton opened his mouth, looking upward in thought. Wires crossing, he uttered, “Reg?”

Bernie laughed weakly. “No… No. That’s not your name. Come on.”

“No, fuck me, Elton. Elton.”

“That’s it.”

Elton pushed a hand through his still-damp hair. “God, almost scared myself there.”

They asked more questions, about his history with using drugs and his mental health, which he promptly let them know that there was indeed no sort of ‘history’ of either. He took drugs, but there was no issue there. He’d never been diagnosed with anything, and never taken any _prescribed_ prescription drugs. Though, despite that, he knew he was prone to bouts of depression, which they recommended he should seek assistance for. Medical and/or otherwise. Two of the paramedics helped him onto the bed while Bernie watched on from behind. They removed the machine from him, leaving a couple of the plastic stickers stuck to his skin, and administered some form of benzodiazepine to help calm his anxiousness. The paramedic that left with John returned.

“Are you okay if the other guy comes back inside?”

Bernie looked to Elton. “Are you okay if John comes back in?”

“If not, we’ll have to get the police out for you,” the paramedic said. “We can’t really do anything to prevent him from being here.”

“He can come in,” Elton allowed. He didn’t want the hassle that saying no would cause.

The paramedic waved John inside.

“Thank you so much.” Bernie keenly shook the lead paramedic’s hand. “Thank you. Is he going to be alright now?” In a hushed tone he possibly didn’t want Elton to hear, he added: “What happened?”

“Well,” the paramedic began with a weighted breath, packing his equipment away. “As a result of coming down from the extended use of cocaine and then taking four lines in a row on top of that, it sent him into a panic attack. He didn’t overdose, but he could have.”

“It was just a panic attack?” Elton said, a little disappointed. He felt stupid. He really had overreacted.

The paramedic nodded his way then returned to Bernie.

“The reason he’s slightly delirious and a bit— confused and agitated,” he said quietly, “from what we can assume, it’s drug-induced psychosis. Being as drunk as he is didn’t help. Severe lack of sleep didn’t do him any favours, either. Typically, the symptoms should rectify themselves, since he hasn’t got any sort of _diagnosed_ mental health issue, or issues, and he doesn’t claim to be dependent on any substances—”

“‘Cause I’m not. Why the fuck would I claim to be? And I’m not fucking psychotic, are you kidding me?”

“If that _were_ the case, he’d have to get treatment for the underlying mental health problem, and then, separate treatment for the dependence, but—”

“I’m not dependent on anything! I’m _not_ mentally ill.”

The paramedic gave a slow blink. “The symptoms he’s showing are not really acute enough for us to forcibly bring him in, I’m afraid. We would still recommend you keep a close eye on him. Maybe… attempt to regulate his usage of certain things. We think he should be fine after a while. At most, it might take a few days. But if that’s not the case and things progress, don’t hesitate to give us another call.”

Bernie left with the paramedics to talk to them on the other side of the door. Meanwhile, John perched himself on the side of the bed, giving three firm slaps to Elton’s thigh.

“You had a panic attack.”

“Fuck off.”

“And you think you’re fucking dying. I have genuinely heard it all.”

He didn’t _know_ _._ That was genuinely how it felt.

“I said fuck off, John.”

John mouthed: “Pathetic.”

The ambulance team left, and when Bernie returned, John took to his feet like clockwork.

“Alright,” Bernie began authoritatively, lifting a loose throw off the bed and tucking it around Elton. “Relax there for a while, take as long as you need. But I’m going to get you some stuff together, we’re leaving for my house. Today. Okay?” He glanced briefly at John, but not for his opinion. “We’re going.”

Elton felt another dulled pulse of panic, but thankfully John gave no protest. Still, his hands were rattling. He tried to disguise it by burying them below the blanket.

“How long are we going for?” Elton asked.

“I don’t know.” Bernie fanned out his hand to smooth over the ripples on the blanket. “However long you need. However long it takes us for this album. But you can end up staying longer if you’d like to, I don’t mind. We’ll get the album out of the way first, then we’ll see what happens. I’d say at least a couple of weeks.”

“Okay.” Elton avoided looking at John’s face, not wanting to see what it had to say. Bernie went to the closet to fetch things, and John left the room, perhaps from no longer being entertained.

Elton rested back against the pillows, watching Bernie rummaging through his closet. When he resurfaced, Bernie clamped the two bags he’d filled to the floor.

“Let’s go.” Elton readily sat up.

“Are you sure? I was just getting stuff ready… You can sleep for a while first, if you want.”

“No, I’m sure. I wanna go, now.”

“Do you want anything to eat before we go?”

He shook his head.

“How about tea? Coffee? I don’t know…”

Elton languidly repeated his previous motion.

“Fair enough. Anything else you want to bring?”

Elton glanced around. At the rumpled up bed sheets, the dresser he’d leant on, the window. The thought of everything that had just happened in this room clotted his brain. He shook his head a final time.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Well, I’ll go put these in the truck,” Bernie said. “If we need any more of your stuff further down the line, I’ll come back and get it. Slip some shoes on when you’re ready, then, Reg, and then we can go.” He heaved the bags over each of his arms. “Get the hell out of here.”

There was no point in hanging around.

After Bernie left, Elton slipped his bare feet into a loose pair of loafers, backs pushed down making them makeshift slippers, then he remembered something. He dipped in behind the bed, where his journal was still carelessly lying from the last time he’d written in it and slung it back there. Which meant John, likely, hadn’t noticed or read it. If he had, he’d placed it back very strategically. Which would be unlike him. If he’d read any of it, he more than likely would have announced it.

Elton threw a brown bomber jacket on over his ruined, open shirt and put the book in his pocket. Just in case. He was going to lift his backpack, but felt no compulsion. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, his frayed complexion: a reddened nose either from cocaine or the frigidness his body was now crawling with, and black smudges below his eyes that, if they were a little bit lower and on his cheeks, could have passed for warpaint. At least the bruises that once decorated his face were gone without a trace.

His tired eyes trailed to the necklace that clung to his chest, reflecting in the light, its chain clinking against one of the paramedics’ stickers. He thinned his lips, considering, then removed the necklace first, setting it on the dresser. He peeled the stickers off one by one, placing them beside it, then held his hand out, looking at the butterfly that sat on his finger.

He didn’t want to bring John with him. Not in any form.

He took it off and set it on top of the coiled chain.

John didn’t give any form of well-wish or even goodbye as he walked past him out the front door. He said nothing. He was dry, he was cold—it was nothing new.

Bernie threw the bags into the back of the truck while Elton waited in the passenger seat, and John shut the door before they’d even driven away.

The drive took around three hours. They listened to the radio and barely spoke.

+

The view of Bernie’s house in a slight mist was like a daydream. Elton almost had to pinch himself. He couldn’t believe he was back. The porch swing was rocking gently while Rhubarb kneaded the floral fabric, making herself comfortable. Custard was curled into a ball beside her.

Going inside, the cats shot off the swing to follow them. Bernie shucked the bags from his shoulders. Expectedly, it was quiet, except for the approaching jingle of a collar and tapping of claws on the stone floor, and then Mud appeared, excitedly jumping and lapping at them both.

“Muddy!” Bernie crouched, scrubbing the dog around her ears. “We’re back! Were you good? Were you?”

Elton smiled at the sight, then gave Mud a courteous pat.

“She was superb,” Joe said, drifting in from the kitchen with a spoon teetering in his hand. His skin was even more weathered than Elton had ever seen it. But he looked good somehow. Well. “Always top dog. You can’t expect anything less from our Mud.”

Bernie stood upright and drew him in for a hug.

“Oh, you’re back,” Elton said, and watched Joe give him a once-over. He smiled at him, and Joe gave a doleful one back.

“Yeah,” he said. “Bernie called me back the other day. I wasted no time sending those other two packing.”

“Did you have a nice time, then?”

“Yes,” he said with a grin. “Amazing, Elton. We had the most amazing time. Once you settle down, I’ll have to tell you all about it! Bernie’s already heard more than enough, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a bit of a retelling.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Elton looked at his hands. His injured one now lacked a bandage. “Your hand’s better?”

“Oh, it’s still a little rusty,” Joe said, “but nothing I can’t manage. You two are back earlier than I’d expected.” He looked to Bernie. “I thought it wasn’t until next week or so?”

“Yeah, well, we decided to come back a little bit sooner. Didn’t we?”

“We did,” Elton confirmed.

“And right you are,” Joe said, and shifted his stance, gently clinking the spoon against his wedding ring. “I’m making a cup of tea here, if either of you are interested in a share.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Bernie said, then looked to Elton.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“No worries at all. I make a good brew though, as you know, so you are missing out.”

Joe ambled off back into the kitchen in a jolly way, but something about it also struck Elton as feeble. Doddery. _Bless him,_ he thought _._ The cats followed Joe out.

“You sure you’re alright?” Bernie asked, dipping back down to pamper Mud.

“Yeah. Do you mind if I lie down? Bit tired.”

“Of course not.” Bernie looked up. “You’ve had a rough day, and it’s only—” He returned upright, looked at his watch. Mud stared up longingly. “Three. And you haven’t slept. Go lie down.”

“Bed or sofa?”

“Whichever you like!”

A nod. “Bed.”

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

He went to Bernie’s room and actually ended up falling asleep for a while. Waking up, he was still drunk, but it was fading. His body ached like he was once dead. He felt rigid. Then he overheard Bernie talking downstairs. He couldn’t make out what he was saying, but was able to distinguish his own name being used more than once. He wondered if he and Joe were discussing him, if Bernie was giving him all of the day’s sordid details.

He crept stiffly from the bed and went to the door, pressing his ear against it.

Still incoherent.

He pulled the door open, doing it slowly to mute its known creak, and stepped out into the hallway, listening intently as he tiptoed along to the top of the stairs.

“I can’t,” Bernie said, sounding stressed. “I know, but I can’t do that. He’s my best friend.”

 _What?_ Elton paused his breath.

“He’s going through a lot right now, I need to be there for him. Look, I know— I didn’t plan for this to happen, I’m sorry. He’s just got here, I’m not sending him home. We can do it later this week. Yes, he’s still going to be here. No, that doesn’t— We can still do something later this week. Him being here doesn’t mean you can’t come. Okay? Yes, I promise.”

 _No, no, no_. Elton didn’t want to get between Bernie and Juniper. Clearly, his previous convictions were right, and he already had been. But no matter how much he wanted him for himself, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to create a relationship between them like the one he had. He didn’t want to make Bernie miserable.

The phone clicked and Bernie let out a loud sigh, then the sound of his feet neared the stairwell.

“Shit.” Elton tore back into the bedroom as fast as he could manage, placing his feet strategically in an attempt at making the least amount of noise, and dove back into bed, fixing the sheets around him.

Seconds later, Bernie knocked two times and stepped inside.

“Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” Bernie said. “How’re you doing?”

Elton forced a smile. “I’m okay… Better. Thank you.” He didn’t want to let him know he’d been eavesdropping, but the guilt and the need to know what he was saying was gnawing at him. “Who were you talking to? On the phone. Thought I heard you…” Bernie’s expression changed. “It sounded like you were annoyed. And you look a little disheartened.”

“Oh, nothing. It was nothing, it was Juniper. She was wanting to come over for a while…”

“And she’s not?”

Bernie looked at him. “I told her not to. Since you’re staying, I didn’t want to be off with her, you know?” He laughed slightly, tipped his head to either side. “She… she got a bit pissed off with me.”

He was _lying_ _._ Not maliciously, he was trying to be nice, protect his feelings. But Juniper didn’t want to come because of Elton. And she was pissed off, that was clear.

“You don’t need to drop everything for me, Bernie. You’re not going to be waiting on me hand-and-foot, I’m fine. Let her come over.”

“But I didn’t want you to feel like I was… fobbing you off. You just got here. And I thought you might want to spend some time together, just you and me, for a bit.”

“No, don’t be silly. We’ve got loads of time to do stuff together. We’ve got an album to make, do we not? Don’t be fobbing _her_ off for me.”

Bernie seemed to hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Go and call her back.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m quite content here,” Elton said, patting the duvet. “I’m all good. I’ll stay outta your hair. Don’t worry about little old me.”

“Okay. Well, you don’t _have_ to stay out of our hair, you know, you’re welcome to come out and join us. If you feel like it. Don’t feel like you have to stay cooped up in here.”

“Thank you. I’ll see.”

“Alright… Thanks, Reg.” Bernie slipped back out of the room, only his head visible now. “Let me… know if you need anything.”

“Sure.”

The door shut, and Elton sank back against the pillow and closed his eyes for a while. He had still felt tired not ten minutes ago, but now sleep was elusive. His fingers were a wanly yellowish, felt like they’d been immersed in ice, and he closed his hands into fists in a vain attempt to heat them. When he opened his eyes, he sat up and reached into the pocket of his jacket he was still wearing, retrieving his journal.

_I’m fucking up Bernie’s life as well as my own. I don’t want that, I don’t want to bring him down in my shit. He deserves to be happy. I’m happiest when I’m with him, but dear fucking God does he get the very fucking worst of me. I don’t know what to do. He doesn’t deserve that. But I love him more than anything. I’m in love with him. I’ve written that a million times already, but it’s still weird. I’m in fucking love with him._

He thought: _God, it’s fucking freezing_.

Bernie came back; he tapped the door twice. Elton snapped the book shut, not having time to stash it away.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Well?”

Bernie shook his head. “She’s not coming.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Bernie let his shoulders sink, looking at the floor. “Says I missed my chance.”

Elton was kind of glad, but felt bad for him. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” Bernie walked over and sat on the bed, handing over a plain black t-shirt. “Here.”

Elton crinkled his brow, but accepted.

“You’re still wearing the shirt,” Bernie said, and his fingers drifted centimetres from the buttonless seam.

“Oh.” Elton suddenly registered that he should be feeling embarrassment. Bernie had been able to see his bare belly the entire time. Fuck. But instead he felt… nothing. Not a thing. Even Joe had seen him. _Eugh_. Now, he felt it.

Flustered, he removed his jacket and let it fall to the floor, shoving the t-shirt on over his ruined shirt.

“She’s fine, though, she’ll come around…” Bernie said. “Just means I get to hang out with you longer, doesn’t it? I’m not complaining.” He tapped the book still in Elton’s lap. “What are you up to, then? Writing something?”

“No, I was just… flicking through it.”

“Can I see some of it?”

“Uh…” Elton turned through the pages, glancing over their contents.

“You don’t have to,” Bernie added.

“It’s nothing special.” Elton closed it. “It’s mostly me whining about John, or writing about what I’ve ate in a day.”

Bernie frowned and Elton realised his error.

“You still do that?”

He attempted to keep it light-hearted, asking, “Which part?”

“Writing down what you eat,” Bernie said. “You still do that? Every day?”

“Yeah. Well, when I remember. No harm in that.”

“Not inherently.”

 _Oh, dear_. _Here we go_.

“Loads of people do it, Bernie,” Elton said. “People have kept diaries for centuries. And it’s all the rage right now, keeping a journal of mundane topics like that.” He set his fingers along the top of the book, tracing along the soft paper. “All the health nuts do it.”

Bernie almost laughed. “You’re not a health nut.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No. No, I get that people _do_ it, but I don’t think it’s that helpful… for you to do.”

“Why not?” Elton asked, somewhat defensive.

“Do I really need to say why?” Bernie looked at him, intense. Elton’s insides knotted harshly. “You aren’t still making yourself sick after eating, are you?”

“No. No… I haven’t done that in… I don’t know how long. You know that. Why would you ask me that?”

“Oh. Sorry…”

”It helps me feel like I’m on top of things, that’s all. That’s why I do it. Write… Write what I eat.”

Bernie winced one eye.

“Like…” Elton sighed. He’d dug himself too deep now. His hand settled on the fat cushioning his stomach. “You know I want to get in better shape. That’s all it is.” Humiliation fermented his insides as his brain dished out the words. “I eat like shit, I can’t— I can’t _control_ myself when it comes to what I eat. Writing it down holds me accountable. It just makes me feel… like I’ve got a better hold on it.” He tapped his worn fingernails on the book’s cover instead. “Even though I really don’t.”

“You didn’t eat much yesterday.”

“I didn’t eat anything yesterday,” Elton corrected, flopping the book back to his duvet-covered lap. “I tell a lie, actually, I had a couple of pieces of that pita stuff they had after the show. That’s it.”

That was not a lie.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

Bernie looked as though his brain, the space behind his eyes, was flooding again with worry. “You haven’t been eating.”

Elton begged himself not to lose his temper. “I have!”

Bernie was certain now. It was in his eyes. Stern certainty. He was shaking his head. “The entire time I was at your place, you weren’t eating right.”

Elton swallowed, nervous. His fingers were tied together, wringing. He said nothing.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

Elton nodded and forced his eyes away from Bernie’s, fingers binding harder. “If I can manage to eat a small amount like that, then I like to think… I did good.”

“Do you not think that’s a bit of a problem, trying not to eat? Eating one thing in a whole day?”

“No.”

“Talk to me, Elton.”

“I’m not _trying_ not to eat. I’d just rather underdo it, compared to my usual, which is overdoing it— _that’s_ what I try to do. But I always end up going back to overeating and sitting on my ass too much anyway, so don’t worry, I won’t be fading away on you.” He pointed to his middle. “Do you think I look like I’m starving myself?”

Bernie clambered in next to him, closest to the wall, burrowing into the sheets.

“Knock that off,” he said. “You look fine. And you don’t need to be keeping track of what you eat.”

Elton knew that wasn’t true. But the way Bernie said it, all sweet-eyed, almost made him doubt his own intuition.

After a beat, Bernie said: “John didn’t do anything to you?”

“What?”

“He didn’t hurt you or anything? Today.”

“No, he didn’t do anything. I just took…”—guilt blanked out the rest of the words—“then when I stood up, everything went black. I fell right down… I didn’t even feel it, Bernie, that’s the thing. And then I had a panic attack, apparently.”

“You shouldn’t be staying up all night like that using drugs. I understand, but it’s not good for you… Let’s take it easy for a while, yeah? The both of us.”

“Yeah.”

“For real,” Bernie said. “I’ll take care of you. I was thinking of taking a bit of a break myself, anyway, from alcohol… Sometimes it takes over and you lose your grip a little. I know I could use a while without it. I think it’d do both of us a bit of good. A shed-load, even. A world.”

“Why’d you never say that?”

“About wanting to take a break from alcohol? Well, it’s a very superficial thing compared to the stuff you’ve been dealing with.”

Elton said nothing, feeling utterly guilty, and frowned at the breathing blob below his borrowed t-shirt.

“You and I can have a sober time here,” Bernie went on. “Scrap any booze for a few weeks, and anything else, and it’ll be good. Peaceful.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Elton was hardly committed, but couldn’t help but smile when he looked at him. “I am… happy to be here.”

“I’m happy you’re here, too.”

His smile disappeared. “You’re not taking pity on me, are you?”

“No. Reg, you know I don’t pity you. That’s not it.”

“But I do feel like a burden to you.”

“Don’t. This was always the plan, remember? Even before that happened.”

“I know.”

Even then, the reason he’d suggested it in the first place hadn’t exactly been an out-of-the-blue idea either.

“I didn’t bring you here because I pity you, I care about you. And I don’t want to see you suffering like that again. I think a break from all of that is exactly what you need. I love you, man.”

They gazed at each other. Elton averted his eyes to look at nothing in particular when the heat in his stomach became too much.

“I love you, too.”

Bernie sank back, scooping Elton’s hand up so casually to him, so not to Elton. He tried to ignore the tingle that crawled up his spine, and Bernie looked at him again.

“Your hand’s freezing.”

“Yeah, I’m a bit cold.”

“Why’d you not say? You should’ve let me know. You’re probably getting sick.”

“Why would I get sick?”

“Well, being sleep-deprived, not eating right, _drugs_ … all of it will have gone for your immune system. You’re probably on your way to a cold.”

Elton sniffled. “In August?”

“Time of the year doesn’t matter, you can get a cold any month.” Bernie nodded to the bleak fireplace across the room, craning forward, disturbing the sheets. “I’ll go put a fire on for you.”

Elton held his warm hand harder. “Not yet.”

Bernie rested back again. He took his other hand and held them both, giving little pulses as if trying to transfer, _work_ his heat into him.

“I’m so glad he didn’t do anything to you,” Bernie said, eyes growing larger as he spoke. “I’d just woke up, heard the banging and screaming, I didn’t know what was going on. I was scared.”

“It was really weird,” Elton said, hyper-focused on the rhythm Bernie was now patting their hands against his lap with. “Still feel a bit weird… But not as bad. Back there, I didn’t know what was going on. I thought—” He stopped himself, realising now how bonkers the things he’d been thinking just hours before were, unable to bring himself to repeat them. But it was real at the time. It was. “I wasn’t sure if it was in my head or not,” he mumbled. “The walls were moving, I was… seeing things. Thinking strange thoughts.”

“That sounds scary.”

“It was. I thought I was dying.”

“That must have been really awful.”

“It was. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before. As bad as that, anyway.”

“A panic attack, or… the other— the thought you were dying?”

“Panic attack,” Elton said. “I’ve came far closer to dying than that. Plenty of times.”

“I know, I was about to say.” Bernie gave their hands one final pat before settling them there on his lap. “Well, let’s hope that was your last. Of both. It can only get better from here.”


	12. Bottled and Brained

+

It was going to be difficult. Dangerous.

That day’s events and conversations were going to affect the rest of the stay. Elton was dead certain. Bernie’s hawk traits were going to multiply. They were going to flourish, even. Advance.

Joe told him all about his and Irene’s vacation, what they had gotten up to, what they had seen. According to him, he had heard Someone Saved My Life Tonight on the radio in their hotel. Privately, the following day, Elton and Bernie discussed what happened a little further, and nothing was brought up since. Not a single thing. But that meant very little. He’d still be watching. Which meant Elton would have to find a discreet way of vomiting, because there was no way he was going to be able to go a _full_ three weeks, possibly more, at Bernie’s without doing that.

Not after last time’s consequences.

They hadn’t started working on the next album yet, and they’d been there three days now. Bernie suggested having a picnic on the veranda to spark inspiration, and Elton agreed with a smile, so as not to cause any further scepticism over his prior assurance.

Bernie purposefully hadn’t packed any flamboyant clothing for understandable comfort reasons, but it left Elton with few options to wear anything that would divert attention from his body.

Idly scratching his arm, his fingers grazed nicked skin, and he cringed. Not from pain, they were past that stage, but sitting in a polo shirt with arms visibly scarred from your own doing wasn’t the most soothing of situations. It was hot out, the sunshine kissing his languid body slowly but surely draining the sickly coldness it’d been riddled with. He felt and was sure he looked like death warmed up. He hadn’t been driven to shower yet, or shave, so there was no point in trying to attempt to doll himself up anyway, he thought. The only one who’d be seeing him was Bernie, or Joe, or Mud, or one of the others… And Bernie was more than immune to anything like that by now. He had to be.

Beyond the veranda’s fencing, down in their neat, cosy beds, all the flowers, all of their many colours, were gently dancing, their aromas mixing with the sugary smell streeling from the window, both getting carried past in the breezes skimming by, taking turns in leading.

Bernie brought out a platter of pancakes and a bowl of cut-in-half strawberries with a jar of honey. With a spatula, he dished out a few pancakes onto a plate in front of Elton. He dared to serve another, but hesitated.

“Enough?”

Elton looked at the mini tower on his plate: four-pancakes-thick, barely balancing. “Yeah. More than.”

Bernie stuck his fingers into the bowl of strawberries. “Don’t worry, my hands are clean, I washed them. Want these?”

Elton paused, humming. “Yes.”

Bernie sprinkled a partial handful on top.

“That’s enough.”

Bernie returned the extra few to the bowl, then lifted the honey dipper from the jar, its golden goodness oozing off of it. He didn’t ask ‘Honey?’, but his expression did.

Elton nodded eagerly.

Bernie drizzled the honey over the pancakes and strawberries with grace and ease, then took his seat again, giving a triumphant nod. “Enjoy.”

“I will,” Elton said, lifting the knife and fork laid out for him. He glanced at Bernie, who immediately looked away, then cut a quarter from the pancakes, skewering them against a strawberry, and dunked it into his mouth. “Oh, man.” He pinned the cutlery together in one hand, talking past the excessive mouthful. Bernie broke into smiling, and Elton laughed, covering his mouth as he added, “That shit’s _good_.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.” Elton swallowed, building a new forkload.

Bernie pointed to Elton’s plate with his fork. “I made those, you know.”

“I know. You don’t think I could smell them?”

“And the strawberries,” Bernie said. “The only thing I didn’t make was the honey.”

“You _made_ strawberries?”

“Don’t, you know what I meant. Grew them.”

“They’re really good. Everything’s good. I swear, you can do anything.”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Bernie said, always humble. “I’ve just—” He shrugged, rubbing his own piece of pancake around the plate to pick up extra honey. “Been trying my hand at baking and things. Sure, I made us that ginger cake the last time you stayed. Remember?”

“Oh yeaaah. _That_ was good. Next, you’ll be _trying your hand_ at making your own honey, too. Getting a beehive.”

“Probably,” Bernie laughed. “I like trying new things.”

“Don’t we all?” Elton held up a glazed piece of pancake. “Honey instead of syrup.”

“Exactly. It’s fun. Oh, forgot to tell you, I’ve been thinking about jarring up enough of that jam I make to give it down to the farmer’s market in town. I’m sure other people would enjoy it as much as we do.”

“The apple juice, too,” Elton suggested.

“Yeah. And the apples themselves. The rest of the fruit and vegetables. It’d be nice. Don’t know why I’ve never considered it before.”

“That would be nice… And you know what the thing is with you and trying new things?” Elton almost-whispered in real wonderment. “You’re always good at it. That’s the thing. That’s the thing with you. Everything you decide you wanna do, you do it, and you’re automatically good at it.”

“Not automatically. And I wouldn’t say you’ve done too bad yourself.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t what I set out to get. This—” Elton held his cutlery up in opposing directions, referring to the show business realm beyond the trees. “All this happened to me unwillingly. I just wanted to make my own songs, I didn’t ask to be world-famous.”

“You got me there.”

“And even when we started getting somewhere… never thought it’d come to this.”

“I don’t think anyone did. I sure didn’t either.”

“But I’m not complaining.”

“I know you’re not, Reg.”

“You, though?” Elton held his cutlery out again, now referring to everything within the pine walls. “You’ve got all _this_. This is, like, a childhood dream come true, this.”

“Is what you’re doing not a childhood dream come true as well?”

“I mean,” Elton stammered. He shut his eyes. “To some degree, of course. Of course. I think every one of us wanted to be Elvis, singing in the mirror with a hairbrush, an air guitar…” A sped-up, chipmunk-voiced rendition of Heartbreak Hotel, and they laughed. “To some degree… you know? But I mean this is your _dream_ dream. You’ve accomplished everything you’ve ever dreamed of, and you still find new things to do all the time. It’s impressive, I tell you.”

“Sure, but I’m not good at _everything_ I do. I screw up sometimes. Like everybody. The first time I tried to bake a cake, it went terribly. Not just poorly, it went terribly. You should’ve seen it, you would’ve laughed your ass off. Things take practice.”

“Sure.” Elton pushed a strawberry into his cheek. “But you always end up good.” He flourished his knife forward. “Take the damn compliment!”

“Okay, okay. Thank you.”

Elton lowered his weapon and impaled another strawberry. “You’re welcome.”

They finished off the pancakes, then picked at the rest of the strawberries still in the bowl like two little monkeys. Bernie stopped to throw a tennis ball for Mud, leaving the rest for Elton, and he continued snacking on them, telling himself that one was his last, but reaching for another, then another…

Mud, in the distance, hurled the tennis ball into the air herself, catching it, then dashing further down the field.

“What’s that you got there?” Elton raised his head to see what Bernie was now fidgeting with below the table.

Bernie held up a camera, supporting it delicately, tilting it.

“See?” Elton pointed at him accusingly. “That’s another thing!”

Bernie laughed, looking down into the lens. “Picked it up when we went to Amsterdam. Thought it’d be cool.”

“It is cool.”

Bernie watched Mud bounding back over, dropping the ball at his feet.

“No more, just for a second,” he told her, patting her head to tide her over. “Okay? Patience. Patience. Sit down.”

Mud barked, piercingly loud, but obeyed him, paws antsily padding on the wooden panels.

Elton lifted another strawberry, preparing to launch it. “Can I?”

“Sure.” Bernie guided her into looking at him with his finger. “Look. Mud, look. Reg’s got something for you.”

Her hazel eyes appeared to double in size. Elton hurled the strawberry and Mud caught it like a lightning-quick venus fly trap, teeth clicking like a crocodile’s.

Bernie held out his hand. “Hit me with one.”

Elton gently pelted one at Bernie’s forehead; they laughed and it bounced off, landing at his feet. Mud snagged it. Then Elton granted him one in his palm.

“Thank you,” Bernie said, securing the berry in his hand while he messed around with the camera. He raised it in one hand, using the strawberry in the other as a means to persuade her into looking at him as he took a photo, then he fed it to her. He lifted the ball again, hucking it as far as he could as her reward. She took off after it like a rocket. Bernie took another photo.

Elton leaned his cheek on his hand. “Cute.”

“Isn’t she?”

“Oh, the dog? Yeah, I mean, I guess she is, too.”

Bernie smirked, then returned the camera to his eye, pointing it Elton’s way, winding the wheel on the back.

“Where are the—” Elton looked behind for the cats Bernie must’ve been trying to get a picture of. They were there, cuddled together on the porch swing. “Oh.” He gestured behind with his thumb and leaned out of the camera’s shot. “There they are.”

He reached for another strawberry and Bernie’s camera followed. Elton sat back again and glared. Bernie snapped a photo.

Elton popped the strawberry into his mouth and squealed, hoisting his feet up onto the chair and pulling his deerstalker hat down further over his head than it was truly capable of, holding it there.

“Don’t!”

Mud came bouncing back, and Bernie kicked the tennis ball this time, sending it on a home run.

“Why not?” He fanned his hand sideways. “Stop it, stop being a hermit crab and let me get another one.”

Elton curled himself tighter. “I’d rather be a hermit crab.”

“Come on.”

“No! I look awful. Please. Not right now.”

“You don’t look awful,” Bernie said, scowl visible even from behind his camera mask. “You look good, that one was good! Come on.”

“I don’t look good, I’m a scruffy-looking bugger. Look at my hair. And I need to shave. Aah!” He pulled his hat down harder. “Don’t.”

“You look good,” Bernie stressed. “Take your hands down. Don’t worry about your hair, we can play Bernie’s Salon again later. Let me get a picture.”

Elton grumbled and stayed hunched up, then Bernie lowered the camera.

“Come on. Take the compliment!”

Elton let go of his hat and returned his feet to the ground. He rested his chin against his hand and _mockingly_ glared at him this time, and Bernie snatched another photo.

“Let me get a smiling one.”

“Fine.” Elton adjusted himself in the chair to project his ‘good side,’ instinctively bringing a hand to his face again. “You can take it, but don’t fucking show it—” he threatened, half-joking, half-not, “—to anyone!”

“Deal.”

“Or so help me.”

Bernie smiled behind the camera and Elton stopped puncturing his lip with his teeth to smile back, hoping he’d hear the shutter any second. It snapped, and he stopped posing.

“That was a good picture,” Bernie said, winding the camera back again.

“I’m sure it was.”

“It was.”

“I’m sure.”

“ _Reg._ Are we huffing with me now?”

“No.” That was the truth, and he sat forward, nabbing another strawberry. The camera clicked again and he looked at Bernie, open-mouthed. “Stop taking pictures of me! I might _have_ to start huffing now.”

“Okay, but—” Bernie set his camera on his lap. “That one was a good picture, too. Really good.”

Elton threw the strawberry into his mouth, leaning back in the chair. “ _I’m sure_.”

“It was.”

Elton looked at him warily, making sure he wasn’t trying to sneak another one. He pointed his finger at him, warning, “No more.”

“No more.”

“Or else I really will start huffing, and not only that, this picnic table will be turned over and Mud’s ball will go through your kitchen window.”

Bernie drew a cross over his chest, then held his hand up. “No more.”

“Thank you. We can play photoshoots all day long,” Elton’s finger orbited his face, “as soon as I don’t look like this.”

“After Bernie’s Salon, then?”

“Yes.”

“Straight after?”

Elton clicked his fingers. “That’s another thing you should do! Hairdressing. Because it actually wasn’t half bad the last time.”

“Why, thank you.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The only thing we ever tell ‘round these parts,” Bernie said, in his well-rounded, well-practiced American cowboy voice. “Ain’t that right?”

Elton snorted and pelted another strawberry at him. “You’re an idiot.” He was used to Bernie’s shtick, was even a fan of it, privately and openly, but still, he lifted yet another strawberry and pelted it at him, this one clipping off the imaginary ten-gallon on his head.

Bernie took a couple more pictures of Mud, then got a few of the cats, and then the scenery that was always so picturesque. He kept to his word of taking no more of Elton. They laughed together like kids and it distracted Elton from the food in his stomach.

“They were good pictures, though,” Bernie added at one point, out of nowhere. “Wait ‘til you see.”

+

Four days later, Elton lifted a bottle of wine from the lattice rack in the kitchen. Bernie had left earlier—running errands, getting feed for his animals, who knew. He’d snuck out before Elton was fully awake. The night before, they talked into the early hours, and decided they should work on new material today.

Bernie had stuck to his no-alcohol pledge with such ease it wasn’t even like he was trying. It was like the thought for a glass of something never crossed his mind. Not once. He was more than content without it. Elton, however, had been finding it tough. Even though he didn’t actually voice firm commitment to the project, he’d felt obliged to do it anyway. Coke was still flickering in his mind; how great a line every now and then would be, how much better it would make everything. But God, could he really use a drink. He felt wretched. He wouldn’t even think about coke if he could just get a drink. Something to sip on while lazing in the hammock by the window, a single glass of wine alongside the meals he was having to eat. It’d help it settle better.

Some days he was able to sneak off and vomit after eating, others, like the strawberry day, he hadn’t found the right opportunity. Plus, his appetite had returned with a vengeance and Bernie was more than happy to accommodate it. A drink would help. Not to mention the nightly struggle to sleep, and when he did fall asleep, having scarily realistic dreams about John finding the jewellery on the dresser and not being one bit happy. He should have hidden it, but it was too late now.

A drink would help, a drink would do a lot. Not having a drink was like refraining from having sugar in your tea. Pointless, bland.

He sloshed wine into a large glass. Guilt chewed him up for a split second before it spat him back out. Bernie wouldn’t know. If he did happen to stumble in on the act, it wasn’t as if he was an alcoholic on a prescribed abstinence. He just felt like having a drink.

He drank it at the counter, then poured himself a second, taking it and the bottle to the kitchen table where Rhubarb was sitting. The grandfather clock in the hallway was ticking dully. He looked to the clock that sat above the fireplace in the living room. It was only after 12pm. But as they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

“Where’s your friend?” Elton asked the cat, ruffling the peach-fuzzy fur on her head.

Rhubarb mewed at that, and bumped her face against his hand.

“Or your brother,” Elton figured. “Whatever relation he is to you, I’m not entirely sure.”

He set the glass down, and Rhubarb chirped again.

“You’re very sweet.”

She let out another meow and nudged her cheek against the rim of the glass, almost toppling it.

“Ah-ah.” Elton raised a finger, snatching the glass away, then swept his finger around the rim. “I don’t want to be ingesting your hair. And I don’t think your father would want you ingesting any of this either. Or spilling it ‘round yourself, getting it all over your lovely fur…” He took a sip, petting her again. “Well, I’m not sure he’d want me having any either, honestly.”

Part of him really was looking for some kind of conversation from her, but the only solace he got was from the feeling of her snow-soft fur.

The cat looked at him, unperturbed.

“He wouldn’t mind,” Elton reasoned, scratching her chest. She purred and shut her eyes. “Sure he wouldn’t? No… No. He doesn’t really get mad at either of us.”

There was a sudden clunk outside. Bernie’s truck door.

“Oh!” Elton looked to the cat again; the cat’s ears rotated like satellites. Elton waited, head cocked. Then there was another bang—of the front door, then the rustle of bags and feet, both human and animal, making their way towards the kitchen.

“I think your dad’s back now.”

Bernie wouldn’t kick up a fuss. It was one glass as far as he knew.

Elton drew the glass closer to his chest and a grinning Bernie barged in, unloading his armful of groceries onto the floor.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” Elton said, watching Rhubarb hop off the tabletop to go and greet him.

Bernie knelt down to pet her, and the other cat came in behind him, feather duster of a tail swishing high in the air while Mud jumped imaginary hurdles behind them on the spot. The sight hit Elton with a wave of adoration for Bernie which came to pass on his face as a repressed smile. He’d always seen why Bernie was so devoted to his animals. The unconditional love they gave you was immense and must have been so rewarding, and all they ever expected in return was a scratch on the head. Elton could also relate to the four-legged party. More than he liked. Much more.

“Oh, there he is,” Elton said softly.

“Yeah.” Bernie swivelled to pet Custard at the same time. “He was sitting outside by the gates, waiting for me. Mud and him.”

Elton took a drink. “Rhu and I were just having a chat. We wondered where he was.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well,” Bernie began, returning to his full height while the cats looped around his ankles. He took obvious notice of the bottle and glass of wine, but said nothing. He scooped a tiny envelope out of one of the bags, waggling it as he stepped around the cats agilely, one foot in front of the other.

Elton snorted into his glass. “Nice cat-walk.”

“Thanks, I’ve been working on it.” Bernie held up the envelope again as he pulled out a chair and flung himself into it. “Take a look… at what I’ve got.”

“What’s that?”

Bernie shook it again, as if the faint rustling inside held the answer.

“The pictures,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you. Have you already looked at them?”

“I might have.”

“Fuck right off.”

Bernie continued smiling.

“Seriously, fuck right off, Bernie. Keep them away from me, I don’t wanna see them.”

“Come on, they’re really good. I swear! You do wanna see them.”

“Sure,” Elton said curtly. “I know you fancy me, but come on.”

“Oh, I can’t help it.” Bernie dug his fingers into the envelope, pulling it open. He dumped the photos onto the tabletop. “D’ya wanna see them? They are good, I promise. Would I lie to you?”

Elton stared, then sighed, shuffling closer. “Go on, then.”

He finished off the last of what was in his glass, then topped it up again, watching Bernie spread the photographs out.

“Okay, there’s the few of Mud,” Bernie said, pushing those into a collection to his left.

“Very cute.”

Bernie smiled, creating a new group. “Here’s the cats… and the scenery.” He started creating a fourth category, shielding them from view. “And these…”

“Stop…”

“Are…”

“Fuck’s sake.”

“Yours!”

Bernie pushed the four photos towards him.

Elton leaned in close. They were actually… fine. He’d seen himself look better, sure, but for some reason, he didn’t hate them.

“Okay… They aren’t _that_ bad.”

“They aren’t bad at all! They’re really good. I think you should use this one—” Bernie lifted the third photo, “for the new album cover.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. It’s a good picture!”

“Okay,” Elton decided, then thought. “Let me take a picture of you, too.”

Bernie shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. “Sure.”

“Then,” Elton began, “then we can do, like—on the insert—everybody. We’ll get the band together and get pictures of them all… and put funny little quotations beside each of them.”

“Yeah!” Bernie lifted up the one where Elton had noticed him taking it. “This one can be yours on the inside. I like it a lot. You’re so mad.” He grinned, then pointed to the previous one. “But that one’s the main cover. Definitely.” He waved the one in his hand. “ _This_ one is like a little… treat. You only get it by looking inside.”

Elton laughed loudly, but his insides velcroed to the idea that Bernie had referred to a photo of him as a treat.

“Yeah…” he eventually said, then paused. “Right.” He got up, grabbing the bottle of wine by its neck. “Let’s get them all over.”

“The band? Right now?”

“Yeah, why not? We’ll get the guys over, take some pictures, fuck around. Who knows. Maybe even write some songs for the album with a cover and no name.”

“And no songs.”

“And no songs.”

Bernie cocked his chin upward. “Well, actually—”

Elton gave a theatrical gasp. “Have you been writing?”

“I might’ve stirred _some_ thing up.”

“Let’s have it now! We’ll get the rest of them over later, the photoshoot can wait!”

“I’ll make us some lunch first. Then we can read it.”

They ate their club sandwiches, polishing off a mass of vanilla ice cream afterwards. The title of the new song made Elton’s full stomach feel hollow.

“Feed Me,” he read. The corners of his mouth pulled downward. “What’s that about?”

“Read it.”

Elton skimmed the first line and knew the basis immediately. It, at least, wasn’t about anything its title might have alluded to.

“You don’t need to do anything with it if you don’t want to, I can understand,” Bernie said. “But it just… I thought you should at least… read it.”

“No, I’ll give it a go. Let’s see… Dear me, I’ll try not to make this too unfortunate.”

He played a dreamy tune, then started to sing. The words were, frankly, shocking. Almost disturbing. It was obviously based on the night he’d had the panic attack and the seams of reality began to tear—from Elton’s point-of-view: Bernie’s take on it. The main theme of the song was that, anyway.

Elton sang the song the whole way through, re-doing it only twice to edit how he sang certain parts. He screamed on the second ‘screaming,’ repeating that effect for the second ‘flashing.’ Although its words were so personal, it ended up sounding good. A poignant groover. Bernie seemed to be thoroughly impressed with it, too. And they both agreed it should be on the new album, whatever that was going to be. People wouldn’t know anything about its actual underlying backstory and never had to. This seemed to be becoming a theme nowadays.

Other parts of the song seemed to depict or allude to his relationship and life with John. Feeding needs, then leaving. Hungry arms. The yearning for the basement hit a nail somewhere on the head. Speaking of John, he hadn’t even so much as phoned to talk to him, check in. Dot had. She had called on the first night wanting to know what happened because John had been, in her words, awkward about it. She called numerous times since, checking up on him, to ask about his day, tell him about hers. A part of Elton wanted to talk to John, desperately, but didn’t want to be the one to call. Didn’t want to showcase his desperation. Perhaps, he had found the abandoned jewellery. Perhaps, it was best if he didn’t call.

And if, somehow, Elton was reading too far into a song about his drug-induced freak-out, that was still his automatic and adamant initial perception. It was like Bernie really knew and understood the situation and dynamics, how he felt inside, possibly even more than he did.

Bernie raised the wine bottle in his hand, clinking the two glasses in his other, and came to sit next to Elton.

“I guess we can have a little something to drink.”

Elton smiled, relieved. There had been an inner turmoil about corrupting Bernie’s plans to veto alcohol even though his agreement to them hadn’t really been wholehearted. Now, all was fine again. It was later in the afternoon, Joe had long since left, and they were sitting alone in the living room.

“Now, see, I was going to suggest the same,” Elton said. “A little drink, a little tipple, will get us in the right mood to play Bernie’s Salon. Get us into the spirit.”

“Well, we may as well since you’d already opened it.” Bernie began filling the glasses and setting them on the coffee table. “We’ll have this little drink tonight, make the most of it, then we can restart our… pledge. We’re here for as long as it takes to make the album, so we still have plenty of time to play sober games.”

Elton’s stomach sank a little. He moved his feet from the coffee table and sat up to lift his glass, bringing it to his mouth, smelling it instead of responding.

“It’ll be good,” Bernie said. “You won’t even know yourself once you start feeling the benefits of it, I assure you. It’ll be worth it.”

Elton poured his glass’ contents down into his throat and set it back on the table empty.

Bernie looked at him, and Elton raised his eyebrows, suggesting he refill it.

Bernie did as Elton’s expression requested.

“You don’t think so?”

“I didn’t say that.” Elton politely sipped this time. “I agree with you. A break could be good. Might help ease things out in my head a bit. Iron out my creases.”

“Exactly. You’ll be able to think clearly, _see_ clearly.”

“My glasses already do that for me.”

Bernie looked at him solemnly. “I’m serious.”

Elton nodded and looked away.

Bernie released a great sigh and rested against his array of cushions, arm propped over them. “Do you feel any better?”

Elton sniffed instinctively. “Yeah. Oh, I think that old cold thing is long over me now.”

“No, I mean…” Bernie flapped his fingers by his ear, then drank.

“Oh. Oh, yeah… I mean, I suppose so. Nothing’s really been bothering me, John’s not here. Truly, though, I’ve been fine. Things can only really get better, can’t they?”

“And you’re not doing that… vomiting business?”

Worry, plain as day, in his eyes.

“No,” Elton lied. “Why do you keep asking me about that? Do you not believe me?”

“I do believe you, I’m only wondering… You know, ‘cause things like that tend to creep up again when you’re not feeling your best.”

_Things like that? What’s that supposed to mean?_

“I haven’t been doing it,” Elton said. “Keeping it all down, all three square meals a day, like I’m supposed to.”

Bernie looked like he wanted to say more, but Elton didn’t prompt him.

“Right.” Elton set his re-emptied glass on the table and refilled it himself, taking a sip for extra Dutch courage. He put it back and clapped his hands to his thighs. “Where are your scissors?”

Bernie was finishing off his first glass and pointed to the table, to where they were readily sat waiting.

Elton picked them up and handed them to him. “Have at it.”

He gave his hair a trim, then handed him a tiny brass mirror. The two were merrily drunk.

“How’d I do this time?”

Elton peered inside, tilted his head to the right and then to the left, then gave the mirror back. “I fucking hate my hair,” he said mournfully.

“What are you talking about, you bastard? It looks good! I thought that was a pretty fine fucking job, what’s the matter with it?”

“No, your work is fucking brilliant, it makes it look less like a dead animal. I just mean _my hair_ _._ It is a complete and utter disaster. I don’t want to lose it all. What am I gonna do?”

“Rock it,” Bernie said heartily.

“You say that as if that’s an option.”

“Is it not?”

“Do you know me? Like, at all?” Elton lifted the wine bottle and examined it cartoonishly. “Or is there some sort of amnesia-inducing substance in this wine?”

“But listen, Reg. Who says you can’t rock it? I’d say you could. It’d look good.”

“Oh, piss away off.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Yeah, you’re just delusional.”

“I’m not. I don’t think being bald is as bad as you think it is.”

Elton’s mind flashed haunting imagery before his eyes and he physically cringed. “Blech.”

“Sorry.” Bernie slugged more wine into their glasses. “I know you’re insecure about it, but hey, what’s the worst that could come from it? You’re a little colder. That’s it. Big deal. That’s what hats are for.”

“I don’t want to be bald… I’d look— I can’t wear hats for the rest of my life.”

“Look.” Bernie drove his fingertips into his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Look, I’m losing my hair. Mine’s on its way down the river, too.”

That may have been true, but he didn’t look bad.

“And you aren’t the slightest bit annoyed?”

“Not really!”

“Well, you aren’t gonna look half as bad as I will. And look at all the hair you do have! I hope you feel lucky.”

“We can be bald together.” Bernie grinned, then reached for the scissors. “Here, look, you can give my hair a trim, too.”

“No way!”

“No, do it, I trust you.”

“Maybe, but I don’t trust myself!”

“Go on!”

“No!”

“I’m not asking you to shear me, just do it. Same as I did to you.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t, Bernie.”

“Fine.” Bernie set his glass down then grabbed a fistful of his hair, threatening its life with the scissors. “I’ll do it.”

“Don’t!”

“Why? It’s my hair. Needs a cut.”

Elton looked at him, the cute way his eyebrows met in the middle, his face as a whole, intently. “I like your hair.”

“You can keep a bit if you want it. But I’m cutting it. It’s coming off.”

“Hold on.” Elton held up his hands and Bernie lowered the scissors.

“What?”

“Can I do it, then?”

Bernie thrust the scissors at him, handle-first. “Yes!”

Elton shuffled closer, as did Bernie, until their legs were tied like roots, and they were almost front-facing spooning.

“Alright. How much?”

“Up to you.”

“No…”

“Up to you!” Bernie chuckled and put a hand over his eyes. “Surprise me.”

Elton hesitated, nerves swimming around. Then he made a snip, first little flecks of hair dusting off.

Bernie gasped excitedly, not peeking. “Did you do it?”

“Yeah!”

“Ah!” He patted Elton’s leg. “Keep going! Keep going!”

Elton wrinkled his nose and continued to cut with precision, tip of his tongue held between his lips. He felt a trifle anxious to start, but soon became dedicated. As he worked, his focus kept jumping between what he was doing and the little flutters of laughter Bernie kept letting out, the way his chest moved with each. The amounts of hair falling off began to vary: starting out small, getting more bold. He leaned in further and further.

“Oh, I can feel the air against my ears!”

“Is that good or bad? I’ve actually whacked off quite a bit here.”

“Well, I don’t know yet, I can’t see it. Is that you done?”

Elton hummed, then snipped off a little uneven piece by his ear and brushed it from his shoulder. “That’s it now.”

Bernie removed his hand from his eyes slowly. He lifted the mirror.

“Hey! That’s not half bad.”

“Really? I was starting to think you’d eat me.”

“No, it looks great!”

“You say that now, but tomorrow sober you might not be so sure.”

“No!” Bernie turned his face to the side, seeming to embrace his new ‘do. “I think it’s cool. Can’t remember the last time I had my hair so short.”

“It’s still a little long in the back,” Elton said, running his fingers through it. “I left that bit.”

“I see that.”

“Looks like a little mullet. Maybe slightly less severe.”

“Looks cool! Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Without thinking, Elton pushed hair back from Bernie’s ear, then tidied the front a little. Bernie looked at him and smiled. And suddenly, Elton’s imagination took off and he floated along with it, letting it take him. In his mind, he kissed him and Bernie deepened it. Bernie’s hands held his arms, and it was so real, so real. His actual body, not his daydreaming one, stirred with the dreamt-up pleasure. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t know for how long. He opened them, abruptly ending the fantasy, and Bernie was exactly the same. Looking. Smiling.

“I remember when you pierced your ear,” Elton said softly, eyes catching on its shine.

“At your mum and step dad’s house.”

Elton’s fingers continued brushing through the side of his hair. “Mm-hm.”

“That was fucking stupid of me.”

“How?”

“I could’ve ended up with a nasty infection or something. I had no clue what I was doing.”

“But it ended up fine.” Elton held the dangling piece of silver for a moment. “You even did it before I did. And you do know that’s the gay side.”

“I’m aware.” Bernie laughed. “You didn’t shut up about it, remember?”

“Yeah.” He lifted his eyes to his, and there they were, looking back.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Bernie said quietly.

Elton’s eyes jumped between his as he slowly realised what he was doing. He was leaning into him, full body weight, curled into him like a cat while one hand was still toying with his hair. He sat up, casually pulling back, leaving only their shoulders touching instead.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Elton nodded.

“Me too,” Bernie said. “Let’s go to bed.”

Elton stood up. “Yeah, let’s get all cosy with our new butch haircuts.”

“Mine is very butch, ain’t it?”

“Suits you.”

Bernie’s smile deepened.

They went to bed. Bernie fell asleep first, his breathing told Elton that. But he fell asleep not long after. He had the wine to thank for that.

+

When he had time to himself, he updated his journal, lamenting about his thirst for more alcohol and filling in the things he’d eaten during the course of each day. He’d been keeping up with his food log every day so far.

Bernie wrote two songs the following day, and Elton put tunes to them the day after that.

They came up with a medley mash-up of three songs called ‘Yell Help/Wednesday Night/Ugly,’ which they both thought would make a strong intro number, and the second was a song called ‘Dan Dare (Pilot of the Future)’.

The album was starting to have a sound, they were carving it out of the rock slowly but surely.

They got the band over for the photoshoot, and Elton wanted to be the photographer. Bringing his non-existent expertise to the forefront, the photoshoot began with a quick lesson from Bernie on how to operate the camera. Once he’d gotten it down to a tee, Elton sprinted around taking photos of everyone and everything, like a kid in a candy store.

He snapped a photo of everyone individually first, then got a couple of group photos, telling everyone where they should be standing according to height, and how they should be positioned. Bernie, even, played into him fully: committing to _two_ outfit changes. He had a plain, unironed cream shirt for the solo picture, but promptly changed for the group photos, with very little coaxing, into a pair of tasseled chaps, so baggy they almost covered his cowboy boots entirely and would have been a laughable addition on anyone else; and a skimpy blue shirt, left completely unbuttoned to expose his tanned, lean stomach and chest. The shirt wasn’t something Elton had handpicked, though he did appreciate the outcome. Masculine, but not in an overly-assertive way. Fucking rugged. Like an actual cowboy. He looked amazing. So much so, Elton found himself sometimes having to look away in case the way he was entranced gave away something he was trying to ignore. It was almost like he’d chosen and styled the shirt that way on purpose, with the intent of making Elton crimson, but he hadn’t, so it left Elton not knowing how to leave his face as he clicked the shutter button again and again.

A few days later, when the pictures had been printed out, Elton assigned himself the role of coming up with the funny lines to put by each of their portraits.

For Bernie, he wrote that without him, Elton John would be serving pigswill to out of work cub-masters, and made quips about his height and ‘second form’ lyrics. This was much to the amusement of Bernie and the others, who eagerly awaited their Eltonism-heavy description. The only one who point-blank refused to have Elton take the piss out of him, being percussionist Ray Cooper.

For himself, Elton whipped up a passage about a boring little musician who was prone to getting fat at Christmas. Bernie was a little undecided on the use of the ‘getting fat at Christmas’ line, but Elton laughed it off, assuring him that it was nothing but ‘funny and silly.’ He even included a line he remembered from an old review that said he only knew four chords. It was tongue-in-cheek.

Elton had flung the pencil with little force, and it had pinged off Bernie’s chest. “Look at what I wrote about you!”

Bernie had lifted it and set it on the table. “Okay, fine.”

+

Over the next three banter-filled weeks, Elton and Bernie created 10 songs. Elton came up with the title ‘Rock of the Westies,’ a pun on ‘West of the Rockies’—a joke derived from Bernie’s adoration for the wild west and also a nod to the recording studio in Colorado that they used for ‘Caribou.’ The track they deemed a bonus, a 50s-esque ditty called ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,’ Bernie wrote with the intention of being a girl-guy duet. Elton wasn’t keen on the idea to begin with, before Bernie suggested Kiki Dee. Elton said okay, and Kiki agreed too. But Elton didn’t want to travel from Bernie’s to record it, he was too comfortable in his little nest, so he sent down a tape of him singing the entire song, doing her parts in a shrill voice to let her know what she had to sing. She went along with it and sent her vocals right back.

They recorded all of the songs at Bernie’s tiny recording studio. The end result was really good, pleasing for everyone involved, but as the deadline was drawing nearer, and Elton’s desire for something good to drink and lots of it increased, they returned to Elton’s house with the album.

Standing in the studio there, Elton insisted he wanted one of the first songs they wrote, ‘Dan Dare,’ to be the album’s first single.

“Nope,” John said smoothly, like a mother telling her kid he couldn’t get another packet of sweets at the checkout.

“Why? It’s my fucking album?”

“Yes.” John circled the table, then rested his arms on the back of a chair, leaning. “But I’m your manager.”

“So?”

“So what I say goes. ‘Island Girl’ is a far better single.”

“But ‘Dan Dare’ is a better song.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes it fucking is,” Elton ranted. “You have no say in this, you can’t make me do something I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid I can.”

“How?”

“Just let it be, Elton,” Bernie said quietly.

“What?” Elton whipped his head around. “You’re taking his side now? That’s great. Fucking great. What about the rest of you?”

The rest of the band stood in silence, shuffling feet and looking at them doing so.

“No,” Bernie said. “No, just… let him put out ‘Island Girl.’ Then if it does as good as he says it will, we can use ‘Dan’ as the second single. Right?”

They both looked to John, who said and did nothing but raise his eyebrows. The look on his face wasn’t reassuring or at all convincing that he’d let it be a second single either, but Elton let his shoulders fall.

“Fine.”

“Lovely.” John stood to his full height. “That’s a good boy.”

Elton glared at him, then at Bernie.

Bernie, like the others, averted his attention to the floor.

+

“He talked to me like I was a fucking dog.”

Elton poured his fourth glass of wine, hands quivering with rage. Some spilled onto the countertop, so he swabbed it up with the loose sleeve of his dressing gown. He turned to face Bernie, who looked forbearing.

“In front of them all,” Elton added. He took a sip, then lolled his glass into his right hand, rubbing his fingertips off his palm to rid them of the stickiness from the liquid dribbling off the glass’s sides.

“He’s always done that,” Bernie offered.

“No shit.” Elton closed his eyes and exhaled, focusing on the remaining stickiness on his palms, hoping that would somehow ground him. “Yes, he _has_ always treated me like shit in front of them, he’s even treated them like shit, but he’s never talked to me like I’m a fucking dog in front of them. He might as well’ve patted me on the fucking head. What kind of fucking person are they going to think I am?”

“They’re not going to think anything about you.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No…”

Elton downed the rest of his drink and poured another.

“They’re going to think I’m a fucking pushover. They’re going to think I’m okay with him talking to me like that.” He downed that one. “They’re going to think I let him fucking talk to me like that. Well, I suppose I fucking do.” He slammed the glass back to the counter to pour another, not caring if it had smashed into a million pieces. “I suppose I do. But not anymore, no fucking way. If he talks to me like that one more fucking time—”

“Elton.”

Elton turned with his new glass, muscles coiled up like springs. “What?”

Bernie looked pained. He faltered, fumbling for words, then said, “Ease up on the wine, man.”

“You’re always complaining, Bernie.” Elton defiantly took three gulps. “We’re not at your resort now. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you what to do…”

“Pretty sure you just told me what to do.”

“No—”

“Pretty sure you did.” Elton drank again. “First, John won’t let me do what I want with a song and you agree with him, then he treats me like a stupid fucking dog, and now you’re starting.”

“I’m not _starting_ , Elton—”

“Yeah, you are.”

“No, and I didn’t agree with John. I was just saying you should let him have it. You know, like letting a dog have a bone? There was no point in starting a whole, big riot over it. And all I’m saying now is that you, maybe, shouldn’t be drowning your sorrows with forty glasses of wine.”

“I’m not drown—” Elton held a fist to his mouth, stopping himself from lashing out. “You’re driving me insane.”

“You’re gonna drive yourself insane doing that.” Bernie clutched the back of his neck. “Listen, I’m… I’m going back home for a while.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about. Here we go. Why did you not come out and say it in the first place?”

“No—”

“You just want to leave.”

“I’ll still come and see you, Elton. I’ll call you. I’ll still come with you when you go on tour.”

 _Tour_. _Dear God_.

“I just… don’t want to stay here with all this,” Bernie went on tepidly. “All the fighting. You’re free to come back with me—”

“Who said I want to? Hm? And who said I want you to come with me on tour? If you’re happy enough to leave now—”

“I want to see Juniper, and—”

“Oh, yes, of course. I doubt you’d want me coming back with you, then. She didn’t want to see you ‘cause I was there last time. She fucking hates me.”

The look on Bernie’s face was that of sheer shame. “No—”

“I heard you. Don’t lie. I heard you talking to her. And it’s fine, anyway. You know, I get it. I’d hate me too if I was her.”

“She doesn’t.”

“And you just want an excuse to leave. Just come out and say it.”

“If I’m driving you insane, would you not be glad of the break from me?”

“No,” Elton said. “No, I’d be glad if you would stop trying to tell me what I should do. Ever since you started with your little sober thing, you’ve become so high and mighty, I can’t fucking stand it. That’s what’s driving me insane. You think you know how everything works, but you don’t. Sometimes a drink helps.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s helping you too much right now.”

“That’s ‘cause I haven’t got there yet, Bernie. It’s a slow-release thing, it’ll take me a few more of these before I really start feeling its benefits.”

Bernie sighed. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, or be high and mighty… I’m not saying I’m going to be sober from now on, I’m just saying that a _real_ break can be really good for you. I’m just… trying to look out for you.”

“Well, stop. You don’t need to do that. I’m more than capable of looking out for myself. And you’re only after saying you want to leave me here on my own, that’s the real break _you’re_ looking for, so you mustn’t care that much.”

“Elton…”

“I might take you up on your offer now, actually. Remember that? Can I punch you in the face?”

“Elton, come on… stop it.”

Elton slapped the glass to the table, wine leaping from it. “What happened to not wanting to fucking leave me here? With him? What happened to all that stuff you said? Or was that a pack of fucking lies, too?”

“It wasn’t lies. I just want—”

“I don’t care what you want!” Elton shouted. He poured another. “And it clearly was lies. The whole time you were here with me and him, you didn’t step in once. Like you said you were going to. You let him get on with it. You didn’t try to stop him _once_.”

“Well, how could I, Elton? Every fight _I_ seen, you were completely irate or intoxicated. Sometimes both. You would’ve told me to go fuck myself.”

“I’m gonna tell you to go fuck yourself now.”

Bernie looked pitiful, like he was trying too hard to find something more to say. Elton’s breathing was the loudest thing in the room.

“Alright, I’m sorry, Bernie,” he said shortly, lifting his glass. “Forgive?”

Bernie nodded lightly.

“Do you want…” Elton sloshed the wine around, then pointed to it. “Do you want me to get rid of this?”

Bernie looked up at him solemnly. “Yes.”

“Sure, okay. Okay.” Elton paused, mind flooded with conflicting thoughts. Then, he slung the glass forward, throwing its contents around him.

Bernie shut his eyes and pursed his lips as the liquid hit his face, but then he stood there, dripping red wine from his brow and chin, even his very eyelashes; his shirt soaked see-through. He said nothing.

Elton laughed bitterly. “Is that better? Hope you don’t like that shirt.”

Bernie opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again, exhaling. With that, he turned, walking out of the kitchen.

“Oh, so you’re leaving right now? That was a quick decision. You don’t care. You don’t fucking care about me! What happened to everything you fucking said? Huh? What fucking happened to everything you said? What happened?”

Elton sat on the floor to drink the rest of the wine out of the bottle, grumbling to himself, outrage engulfing him. He kept shouting things about Bernie not caring until he heard the front door open and shut about forty minutes later, and knew that Bernie was gone, and then he sobbed, heartache pouring from him. Bernie fucking hated him. And rightly so. Rightly fucking so.

After cracking open a second bottle of wine and finishing that, he headed to his bedroom with the intent of causing himself real harm, but when he got there, and was wobbling side-to-side in front of his nightstand, trying to recollect what he needed to get from its drawer to do what he wanted to do, he felt a hand on his shoulder that he wishfully thought was Bernie. Come to apologise. Apologise for what? Apolo—

“Did you and Bernie have a falling out?”

“Yes,” Elton mumbled. Cheeks still wet, more tears welling up.

“Don’t let him bother you.”

“But he— mrgmh…”

John roped his arms around him, elbows resting on the slopes of his waist. “I know.”

“He doesn’t understand… He went back home. He hates me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.”

John saying that, of all people, shed a glimmer of hope that he hadn’t ruined everything.

“But you can’t rely on him, Elton.”

“Mmh…”

“He doesn’t really care, he wouldn’t leave when you’re so upset if he did. You shouldn’t let yourself get so hung-up on him. Keep your distance. I’ve always thought he was too sweet to truly be wholesome. He doesn’t hate you, but I bet _he_ wouldn’t cry over you.”

“Yeah…”

“I’m right.” John swiped a tear he didn’t feel from his cheek, then gently pinched the rubber ring of fat around his middle. “Have you lost weight, darling?”

“…Really?”

John squeezed him some more. “Oh, definitely.”

Elton pressed his hand to his belly, almost able to feel the dull flutter of butterflies with his fingers.

“I don’t know… I- I didn’t think so. I don’t— I…”

“No, you definitely have, pet. Definitely. Oh, I must only be getting a good look at you now. You look great.”

“Thank you…”

“Just being honest, pet. Aren’t I always honest with you? Now, I want you to be honest with me for a second.”

Elton’s blood ran cold. “Okay…”

“Why’d you take the necklace I bought you off? And the ring. Why’d you leave them here?”

Elton could not dare to tell him his real, confusing, conflicting reasoning.

“No reason.”

“Now, you have to be honest with me.”

“It wasn’t… John, it wasn’t a conscious thing, I… I just wanted to switch them out.”

John lifted his hand, as if he were inspecting whether or not that was true. He wasn’t sure if John believed it or not, but either way, the answer didn’t please him.

“Will you put them back on? Seeing them sitting over there… it broke my heart.”

Elton nodded keenly. “Yes. I— Yes, I’ll put them back on. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything…”

“It’s okay.”

John unwrapped his warm arms to go over and get them. He handed the butterfly over and hotly watched Elton rotating it. The heat impelled Elton to quickly push it over his finger.

“There.”

John looked him in the eye. “Don’t take either of them off again.”

“I won’t.”

“You know I like to see them on you.”

“I won’t take them off.”

John hung the necklace around his neck and the pendant fell with a grave thud on his chest. “Promise,” he said quietly, toying with the tiny reeds. “ _Really_ promise.”

Elton wasn’t sure how to do that. “I promise. I- I really promise, I love you… I love you more than anything, I won’t take them off. Promise.”

“That’s good.” John cupped his chin and Elton closed his eyes, kissing back at the quick peck on his lips. “Let’s see how long you keep it.”

+

Elton kept both of them on at all times.

After reflecting on it the next morning, the heavy necklace getting put around his neck made him feel more like a dog than any remark about being a good boy ever could. But he had to keep it on, and the ring. To prove a point. To John, that he could keep a promise. And to himself, that he did love John. The cold pendant on his chest had to remind him of that and _banish_ any thoughts of Bernie in that way at the same time.

Bernie still came around and still called like he promised. Both of them acted as if nothing had happened. Bernie was probably doing it to be a diplomat. Elton was doing it to prove a point. Sticking to his guns, Elton told Bernie to stay behind on the jam-packed almost-four-month-long world tour he was set to go on. And Bernie didn’t put up a fight.

The tour started with a few shows across the UK, extending to other parts of Europe, then on to the United States where he played a sell-out 55,000-person gig at Dodgers’ Stadium. Then it was on to several countries in Asia, finishing off with another leg in the UK in November. Thankfully, the album did well in the charts; ‘Island Girl’ became a hit, but Elton didn’t bother trying to push for ‘Dan Dare’ to have his heyday again.

By the end of it, Elton was exhausted in every sense of the word. Being away from Bernie was sapping more energy from him than anything.

They were still talking on the phone, but that wasn’t the same, and there was still an underlying feeling that Bernie hated him despite still wanting to talk. After shows, at any chance he got, he was sitting by the phone.

Luckily, fans had reacted to the new album as fans do—they loved it. But more critical listeners weren’t so sure. Rolling Stone magazine had more than their fair share of comments to give; the only good thing they had to say about it was that Bernie’s lyrics for ‘Feed Me’ were the best on the album, despite being about an apparent ‘spiral into insanity.’ Not quite right, but, eh, almost.

Overall, they had pretty much called the album a parody, a farce, a sham. Which was water off a duck’s back, for the most part. You can’t please everybody. He didn’t want to please everybody. But the blatant criticisms were still cutting in their own right, and Elton was quick to phone Bernie up to complain to him about it.

The record label were expecting another album to be completed by April of the following year, 1976. And the band were contractually obligated to do so. It was more time than he’d had for the last two albums, or even the last five, but the constant tediousness of having to pull a new album out of your ass every few months was soul-destroying. So repetitive. Dull. Elton preferred the idea of crafting music when he felt the desire, do it as he chugged along, rather than being catapulted into it without a say on whether he wanted to or not. He managed to talk John into letting him record a handful of their performances from the tour, as well as using a few recordings from tours’ past—like Madison Square Garden ‘74, a cover of ‘I Saw Her Standing There,’ a duet with John Lennon—and released it in early 1976 under the guise of an album, titling it ‘Here and There.’

When that contract was up, Elton took an opportunity and bit the bullet. He decided to invent and invest in his own record label, therefore giving himself almost all the freedom he needed, album-wise. “See? Not just a pretty face,” was what he told Bernie over the phone, who thought it was an incredible idea. ‘Let there be ‘Rocket Records’—and there was. And it was good,’ was the general idea. When it was up and running on all fours, he immediately signed Kiki Dee as well as other up-and-coming artists, and tried everything in his power to help get their ships heard of, and sailing. A form of burying his head in the sand and deflecting attention from himself. The label hadn’t managed anything outstanding in its fledgling moments, but there was still time. The initial reason for its birth, which was giving himself and the band more leeway, was the main point, and had been accomplished. That was the main thing. During this time, he also managed to become chairman and director of Watford Football Club, and invested plenty of money and time in that. It was also something he was immensely proud of. And another form of taking his mind off other things. And, essentially, a childhood dream come true.

And, as his own prophecy foretold inside of ‘Rock of the Westies’—he had gotten fat over Christmas. No amount of Bernie-less living or journaling prevented that. He attempted to take that in his stride as well, but that was a little harder to swallow.

+

In April of 1976, Bernie offered to come down and see him, but digging his heels in for reasons he could barely recall, Elton refused. He had taken a few months off from doing anything apart from drugs, and spending most of his time and money buying items he knew he didn’t need, but wanted. If it seems excessive, but brings you joy—it’s not excessive. That was how he looked at it. And he didn’t want Bernie coming along and putting a stop to it.

Drugs and alcohol—he did need. Not in a dependent way, of course, but Christ, he did need them. Waking up and trying to go about your day without something to lift you had made life so mundane, terrible, and virtually undoable. Really, he needed Bernie more than anything, but he couldn’t bring himself to be the one to cave and say sorry. Which meant coke and/or alcohol and other painkillers every day, to feel normal. He had become a hermit, of sorts. The elusive rockstar trope come to life.

During the tail-end of another multiple-all-nighter coke binge, a representative from an embryonic music magazine named Decka Dance, an obvious yet obscure play on words, contacted him, asking for the opportunity to conduct a short interview. Feeling generous towards another charitable cause, and lacking anything much better to do in his foreseeable future, Elton agreed to do it for them. Later that same day, a young journalist came out to his address, bundle of papers under one arm, tape recorder in hand. His olive skin was dewy, black hair gelled back slick. He swaggered in and introduced himself as Ambrose Martín with a bold handshake. He had to have been in his twenties, but he looked younger. He was a whippersnapper of a man.

They sat down, Elton slouched in his lavish armchair with a glass of wine, Martín in the adjoining sofa, who had turned down his offer of a glass.

Elton, in the last few hours, had lost almost all traces of the desire to want to do this. He was sitting, legs crossed, in nothing but his underwear and an open dressing gown, for Christ’s sake. _Get in_ _, get out_ was all he could think.

Martín set his tape deck onto the coffee table.

“Nice table,” he said. The kid was trying to be conversational.

“Thanks.” Elton pointed at the machine. “I don’t remember saying I was okay with this being a recorded thing.”

Martín’s dark eyebrows sewed together, then his expression changed back to impassive.

“You did. You said it was fine. On the phone.”

“I know.” Elton laughed. “I’m— I’m just kidding.”

Martín jostled his papers and took out a pen.

“Dear me, very professional,” Elton said. “Are you going to be taking notes on me? Wow, feel like I’m in therapy.”

Martín looked to his notes uncomfortably, then back up.

Elton sniffed. “Don’t go writing that down, that was another joke. I’m not in therapy, but some people would say I should be.”

“Okay. Well, let’s get started, shall we? I know I said a short interview, but I’ve got a bunch of tapes set to go here, so if you feel like it, don’t worry about divulging. We can burn all day.”

“Right. Well.” Elton smiled a wide, extraterrestrial-type smile. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Martín clicked the record button.

Elton sat up a little from his slouched position, and drank to quench the perpetually dry and sticky cavity that was his mouth.

“First off,” Martín said, “I know you don’t do this often. Especially inviting someone to your house for it. I’m really grateful you agreed to do this.”

“Well, you know me.”

“Actually, I really don’t. Which is why I wanted to do this. I’d like to have the opportunity to get to know you a bit better, as well as give that same insight to our readers.”

“That’s what we’re here for.”

“You’ve been on a break for several months now. A lot of people have been wondering about what you’ve been up to…”

“Not a lot, honestly,” Elton said dryly, resting his temple against his knuckles. He sniffed again, scrubbed his nose.

“What made you decide to take this time for yourself?”

“Well, you tend to get a bit sick of doing things in a laid-out, uniform way, don’t you? You get a bit sick of a lot of things. You know that. It’s like being in school. Not that I was a very boisterous or outspoken character at school, but you get the idea, the thoughts are there. You know? One gets sick of doing things the same old way every time, day in and day out.”

“So would it be fair to say that was why you started your own record label, and submerged yourself in that for a period, as well as your new role as—”

“It’s all just a matter of changing things up when you’ve got the freedom to do so.” Elton closed his eyes, fingertips on his chest. “And I think I deserve that. That’s all it is, really.”

“A lot of people seem to think this… this break, is the end for you. What would you say to that?”

“Bollocks.” Elton laughed cheerlessly. “That’s the biggest load of fucking bollocks.”

“I’m only relaying what people have said.”

“I know you are, and I’m just telling you it’s fucking bollocks.” Elton slouched back down in his chair, taking a drink. “People love to think they know things… that they know nothing about. But it’s called a break, hiatus, respite. Whatever. People do it. _All_ the time. I don’t see why _me_ choosing to do it for longer than a few weeks suddenly means I’m digging myself and my career a hole in the ground. It’s stupid.”

The interview rattled on like an old steam train losing momentum; shit questions with purposefully shit answers. Elton got up mid-question to refill his glass. From the kitchen, he could’ve sworn he heard Ambrose scribbling on his stupid wad of papers, taking notes, but when he paused his breath to listen closer, it had stopped. Either he was imagining it, or that guy was super sneaky. Elton returned and sat down, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

Ambrose Martín gave a false cough. “As I was saying…”

“Sorry, did you want a drink this time?”

“No, thank you. Have you heard any of the critiques that people have been making about your latest studio album?”

“You mean that Rolling Stone were making?” Elton antsily readjusted his posture. “They were the only ones. Yes, I seen it. What of it?”

“Well, there was that one. There were a few others.”

“Really? Oh. Well, have _you_ heard it? What did you think?”

“I quite liked it.”

“Only quite?”

“Yes. I mean, I think most of them are very good songs, but there were a few things I wanted to ask you about it. I was going to wait until a little further in—”

“Oh, no, go ahead. I’m— I’m intrigued.”

“The song ‘Island Girl.’” Martín didn’t miss a beat. “Now a top hit for you, and it is catchy, but some people, when really listening to the lyrics, have found elements of it, well, racist. And quite sexist.”

“That’s what Rolling Stone said.”

“Yes, they did. And I’m just following up on it.”

“You’re following up on it? Hm. Well, people tend to have this thing called selective memory when it comes to me, you see. You mightn’t know this, as an amateur, but I don’t write my lyrics.”

Martín seemed a little caught in the headlights, but he pursued.

“I’m aware of that,” he said. “The point—”

“So you’re asking me if I’m racist or sexist for lyrics that I didn’t write. I’ll give you Bernie’s address if you want to go and ask him.”

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

“What?”

“I didn’t ask anything, Elton, I, well, I simply stated an observation people were making. I hadn’t gotten around to asking anything.”

“Well, what were you going to ask me?”

“What your response to people saying that would be.”

Elton twitched his shoulders, voice echoing in his glass. “I didn’t write it.”

“But, surely, you read it.”

“Surely I did, yes. But I tend to make little to no alterations to anything Bernie hands me. I’m not trying to pass the blame here, but a lot of his stuff is story-telling anyway, it isn’t real. A lot of our songs have questionable lyrics, doesn’t mean either of us have questionable outlooks on things.”

“But you didn’t think, at any point, maybe we should reconsider this?” Martín pressed his pen against his cheek, shiny shoes winking in the light. “There was nothing stopping you from asking Bernie Taupin to reconstruct the words a little if you’d seen an issue at the time. Correct?”

“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’ll admit, some of the lyrics in that album, and plenty of albums previous, have been mildly derogatory in nature at times. The intention was never meant to be offensive, but— Take a look at ‘Dirty Little Girl’ for instance. Sure, some things we possibly should have revised… but we didn’t. And I can’t change that now. And I’m sorry. But, for the next album, I might get Bernie to write a song about you. Would that be good?”

Martín stared blankly.

“Yeah,” Elton said. “Don’t even worry about it, I’ll get him to do you one. No commission needed.”

“Alright, well, I can sense you’re getting a little heated about this, so I’ll—”

“I’m not, I assure you. I’m just letting you know.”

“Right…”

“Actually, you know what? Can I ask _you_ a question?”

Martín splayed his fingers in opposing directions. “Sure. Shoot.”

“Why’d you choose this as your career?”

Martín pushed his shoulders back like he’d somehow previously prepared an answer. “It’s something I’ve always been interested in.”

“Grilling people?”

“No, journalism. I wanted to lend my own perspective, I liked the idea of giving an authentic insight into things. I hate when people present complete fabrications as fact.”

“If that’s the case, I think you set your heart on the wrong field.”

“I wasn’t trying to _needle_ with what I asked you, I was simply—”

Elton set his glass down in an act of finality. “No. This?” he said, gesturing broadly. He stood. “—is done. Get your shit, get out of my house.”

“That’s fair enough, I won’t outstay my welcome, but—”

“You weren’t ever welcome.” Elton held back on laughing. “Okay? You weren’t, so, seriously, get out of my house now.”

He quickly gathered his things and Elton herded him towards the front door, papers falling, Martín doubling over to lift them mid-scramble.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Elton pinned the door open and pinwheeled his other hand. “Must be nice working for a magazine you know nobody’s going to read. No stress for when you do a shit job! Thanks for your time, hope you’re alright getting out the gate.”

He flashed him a smile then shut the door in his face.

+

“Read that interview,” Bernie said.

Elton let out a breath, images of that day flitting through his mind.

“Did you really do it in your underwear?”

“Yeah.” A further sigh escaped him. “I was kind of an asshole.”

“I read it, and I thought, ‘This doesn’t seem like you.’ Then I figured it sounded exactly like you… but in a bad mood.”

“Yeah, I was an asshole, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Bernie told him. “Seems it. What’s wrong?”

Elton pushed his head back, forcing his wooden spine to straighten. “I don’t know.” He took a drink from the wine bottle he was holding. “Should’ve just told him I didn’t think that far into the lyrics and that’s on me being a self-centred, close-minded idiot. Instead, I bit his head off. All he was doing was asking a bloody question.”

“It’s on both of us. Especially me. I won’t write stuff like that again.”

“God, I was so rude to him, Bernie.”

“I seen that. He said you got up in the middle of it to get a drink and take coke.”

“I did not!” Elton spat, eyes ticking to the razor and remnants of cocaine on his nightstand. He knew that prick was writing something. _Knew it_. “I went and got another drink, but I didn’t take cocaine. Not while he was here. I may have been in my underwear, sure, but I didn’t do that. That lying little—”

“It says here you might as well have excused yourself by saying you had to go and powder your nose. He says your nostrils were ringed with it.”

Elton instinctively pushed his fingers into his nose and checked. There was some on his fingertips now, but that was because he’d finished a line less than 20 minutes before this phone call.

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed. “Authentic journalism, my fucking ass. This is going to be a fucking disaster. I don’t care what the public thinks of me, they can go fuck themselves, but Watford, Bernie. _John_. John’s gonna go through me. He’s— Oh, God.” He sunk his finger and thumb into his eye sockets, closed eyes leaning on them, building an almost painful amount of pressure. “He’s gonna kill me. He’s literally going to kill me.”

“No, Elton. I won’t let him do anything. Are you not okay? What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“Bernie…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so mean to you. I— I’m sorry for everything I did.”

“It’s okay.”

“It is not okay,” Elton growled. “I was really rude to you, too. In fact, I was even worse to you than I was to him. I threw a drink at you.”

“Yeah, well…”

“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I can’t say I didn’t mean to do it because I did. I’m a cunt, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know you’re sorry. I understand why you felt the way you did, why you acted that way, and I forgive you for it. And I appreciate you apologising.”

 _I really don’t deserve you_.

“We’re still best friends, aren’t we?”

“Forever.”

He began to cry and switched to breathing through his mouth, wiped his runny nose. “Are you gonna come back?”

“Of course.”

“I really want you to, I need you. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You never lost me, Reg. I’m always right here. You can come back here, if you like.”

“I’d like that.”

“And you don’t have to abstain from drinking or anything like that, but…”

“I won’t overdo it.”

“That’s okay.”

Suddenly, his hands were shaking. “I don’t deserve you…”

“Hey. Don’t say that.”

“I don’t, I don’t deserve to have you as a friend or any part of my life at all. And you, you don’t deserve to be stuck dealing with me. I’m not a nice person.”

“That’s not true. That isn’t true, okay? I love you. I’ll come and see you. We’ll come back here.”

Bernie’s voice was rushed. There was someone talking in the background. Juniper. Had to be. Immediately, Elton felt ill and cried harder, shoulders trembling.

“Alright?” Bernie said. “Don’t be sad. I have to go, but I’ll call you soon. Later. I promise. Look after yourself. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The line died and Elton let the receiver hang off the hook, then rolled over to chop up and snort a new line, washing down the chemical backdrip with the last of his wine. It hurt. Hurt like hell, maybe even worse. But at least he could rely on Bernie to keep his promise.

+

Bernie did call later that night to talk. And he arrived the following day.

John, however, didn’t follow the script. He had next to nothing to say about the Decka Dance interview, which was odd. He’d definitely heard about it. Probably even read it line-for-line. He must have made some phone calls, though. Because Watford never called to throw him out on his ass.

The only thing he did have visual disdain for was when Elton announced he was going back to Bernie’s. He said nothing, but his face had said everything. On the way out the door to Bernie’s truck, Elton pulled the chain around his neck forward, displaying it with a shake and subtle chime.

“I love you,” he’d mouthed, air escaping to form some of the words.

“Okay,” John had mouthed back. Only mouthed, no sound.

+

Elton looked out the kitchen’s dutch door window at the horses sticking their heads out of each of the stable doors.

He wondered if they were paying any sort of attention to him. The top half of the door wasn’t open, though he was basically doing the same thing they were. He wondered what they thought about. Not only about what they were currently seeing, but in general. Faye was always his favourite one. She had little grey speckles that looked like muddied spots in her otherwise fresh snow hair. ‘Flea-bitten’ was how Bernie had described the pattern.

Elton prompted Bernie into inviting Juniper over at some point during his stay. He wanted to prove to Bernie, and to himself, mostly, that he didn’t have an issue with her. He needed to ensure to Juniper that she had nothing to worry about.

When Bernie supposed that was a great idea and said he’d invite her over later today, it sent a wave of worry through him. When he called her and she agreed to come, the wave still pulsing through him spiked. But he had to do it now.

 _She’s nice_ , he told himself again. And Faye was her favourite, too.

Chickens scratching and picking at the ground in front of the stables clucked joyously. Elton didn’t wonder what they thought about. They were always obliviously content, they couldn’t have thought about much.

The kettle whistling brought him out of his thoughts.

He made the two mugs of tea and brought them into the living room where Bernie was sat on the sofa with his legs tucked up tight, using them to lean on as he indulgently scribbled. Mud, Rhubarb, and Custard were sitting in front of him as his audience. Likely, somehow, mistaking paper for food.

“Writing?”

Bernie looked up with a smile and a nod.

Elton let out a caw-like shriek, setting the mugs on the coffee table, and clamping his hands over his eyes. “Don’t! I can’t see you! It’s bad luck.”

“Since when? And which one of us is wearing the dress?”

“Me, obviously.” Elton dropped his hands, recollecting the mugs of tea. “Or both of us, I’m not overly fussed. But, seriously, Bernie, it’s bad luck.”

“You’ve seen me write before.”

“And it ruins the illusion, the _mystique_ , dear boy.”

Bernie pushed his pencil through his hair to rest on his ear. “I’ll go sit somewhere else, then?”

Elton sat down beside him slowly. “No, no… Nevermind, continue. As you were.”

Bernie pushed air out through his nose, shaking his head, resuming writing.

Elton leaned over him to set Bernie’s mug on the table next to him, and Bernie pinned his paper to his chest like it was a school test.

“You’re breaking your own superstition now, don’t look! You’re cheating.”

“I’m not, I’m giving you your tea.”

Bernie glanced at the mug. “Thank you, but still.” He shooed him away with a gliding swoop of his hand and Elton bopped down a notch on the sofa.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Much better.”

Elton sank back with his own mug of tea and watched him. At one point, he pointed at Mud with his pencil, chewed it, then did the same at his cats. He smirked, then started scribbling.

“Don’t tell me you’re making me sing about your pets,” Elton said.

“Not necessarily. I just… thought of something.”

Elton leant up, lifting his eyebrows high.

Bernie clamped the paper to his chest again. “Ah! Bad luck.”

Elton thumped back to his seat. “At least give me something to look at.”

“You can look at me,” Bernie said, not drawing away from his song.

“While I don’t mind that, I’ve been looking at you non-stop for about a week.”

“Here.” Bernie smirked again, leafing two sheets out and letting them float into the space between them. “There’s a couple.”

Elton lifted them and brought them close to his glasses-less face.

“Hey, I forgot,” Bernie said. “You actually could sit right beside me. You wouldn’t be able to see any of it from over my shoulder anyway.”

“Piss off. Very funny,” Elton laughed, and squinted harder. “Idol. Cage the Songbird.” He tapped the second paper. “I like the sound of that one.”

“Yeah? I think you’ll like Idol, too. Idol’s about Elvis.”

“Oh yeah?” Elton squinted even harder, even keener, to read some of the swirly lyrics.

“Yeah, man.”

Elton read through both of them as best as he could.

“What’s the second one about?” he asked, holding up the sheet. “Is it me?”

Bernie laughed loudly. “Are you a backstage baby princess?”

“Not backstage,” Elton said. “Out the front. No, I just thought the female descriptions were… a cover-up.”

“It’s not about you,” Bernie then said gravely. “At least, I sure hope it’s not.”

Elton nodded, finger tracing along the hessian fabric of the sofa.

“You haven’t been out on your horses for a while,” he said after a while, then looked up at him, and Bernie was listening intently. “You should do that some time soon, they look like they’re longing for something out there. I bet that’s what it is.”

“Yeah? I haven’t ridden in a while, come to think of it. Maybe we can all go out later. Juniper should be here soon. After I finish this and get us something to eat, we can head out. Give them what they’re longing for.”

Elton noisily sipped his oversweet tea and nodded, and a key chipped its way into the front door.


	13. We Keep Darting Through the Holes As the Hunter and the Fox (‘Cause I Am the Fox, Like It Or Not)

+

It rained. The three of them had dashed back inside.

Bernie had suggested taking a walk around the grounds. Seemingly, the idea of going out on the horses had slipped his mind. Elton hadn’t minded too much, the walk was nice. And when he really thought about it, he was glad they didn’t go out on that group pony trek. He didn’t know how he would’ve handled that. There wasn’t really any way to dive out of awkward silences on horseback other than staring at the crowd of trees—some of which were juniper. A sweet gesture by Bernie that was the equivalent of riding up to your door on horseback with a rose between your teeth, if not even more romantic. The smell they gave off along with the other coniferous trees was pleasant.

Gin.

They had gotten as far as the small brooks at the far end of the plain, and that was when it began to rain, so they made a prompt journey back to the house.

“How about a game of Monopoly?”

Bernie suggested this and whipped out the box from below his television with the exact amount of enthusiasm one might have when discovering a bag of cocaine they thought they’d lost.

Juniper smiled at him, flipping her golden tresses over her shoulder. “Sure.”

“What about you, Reg? In?”

Elton looked at the tea he hadn’t finished. “Only if I can be the hat.”

“I’ll be the…” Bernie examined the box. “Oh, I’ll be the boot. That’s cool.”

He sat down on the floor and cleared a space on the coffee table, attentively setting the board up. Elton and Juniper dove down, joining him.

“I’ll be the car,” she said, picking it up. She scrunched her nose. “It’s so cute. Isn’t it?”

“Adorable,” Elton said. “Look at us sitting down to play Monopoly. Aren’t _we_ adorable? We’re like a huddle of old dears. _Where’s the tea, Margarine?_ ”

The three of them laughed, then Bernie sat up on his knees.

“Do you want some more?”

“No! I’m perfectly fine, dear. You sit right where you are, I’m only having a laugh.”

“I know that,” Bernie said, looking between them. “But if you do really want tea, say now so we don’t have to interrupt the game. Anyone?”

“I’m fine, Bern.” Juniper switched to sitting cross-legged. “I think we’re both okay.”

The game must have lasted an hour and twenty minutes. Elton won, and he half-joking, half-not, boasted about it for at least an additional ten minutes. They had their tea afterwards.

“I told you I’d win,” he said, mentally deeming it the last time he’d bring it up.

“You did.” Bernie laughed and sat beside Juniper, slinging an arm around her. “If I hadn’t gone to jail so many times, I could’ve won.”

Elton reached forward, lifting the top hat piece again. “You have to play it smart.”

“When’d you cut your hair, Bern?” She rustled her fingers through it at either side. “I thought you were letting it grow out after that last time?”

Elton held his breath, and acted as if the little top hat in his hand had something incredibly striking about it.

“Few days ago,” he heard Bernie say. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s… kinda cute. Never seen it so short on you, though.”

“Yeah, kinda weird, isn’t it?” He heard him kiss her.

She giggled. “Kind of. But I like it.”

“I cut it,” Elton said, then looked at them. “The first time, too.”

“Oh.” Juniper blinked. “I see. Yeah, see, I knew you did it the first time. You did it again?”

“Yeah.” Bernie kissed her hair. “He didn’t do half bad, did he? We both had a go at each other’s. I cut his, he cut mine.”

“I kind of prefer it long,” she said, settling against him. “But yeah, it’s… it’s nice.”

“It’ll grow,” Bernie said. “I like it like this, it’s a lot cooler.”

“Oh, I bet. I can see your little ears.”

Elton looked at the game piece until he was sure his tea had gone cold as ice.

“How’s John?” Juniper asked.

Elton’s hand tightened around the metal. He shrugged, shook his head. “He’s okay,” he said finally.

“I haven’t seen him in aaaages. I’d love to see him. We should all get together some time. Go out for a meal or something, or a drink.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that could be fun.”

“Could be,” Bernie said.

“John’s _such_ a sweetheart,” Juniper gushed, and Elton and Bernie shared a glance faster than the speed of sound.

Juniper cuddled into Bernie and Bernie lifted the television remote, planting another kiss atop her head. The clock ticked on.

“I _miss_ John,” Elton muttered, and barely realised he had said anything until he glanced at them again. Juniper was smiling at him fondly. Bernie was almost scowling.

The time spent with Juniper wasn’t as bad as he’d foreseen. It was… rather nice. She stayed for two days, the weekend, because she said she had a work-related commitment she had to follow through with on Monday morning. Elton wondered what she did. He wondered if he should ask Bernie.

Elton had came back to the conclusion that she was not the witch, nor the spiny needles that coated her namesake’s branches, he’d built her up as in his mind. When Bernie went to settle his animals down each night, there were a few slightly awkward minutes’ silence, but they managed to skimp on it with idle small talk.

She was lovely. She really was. He felt odd around her; anxious, as if he had to wind in the way he acted. It was stupid, but it was how his mind worked, and he couldn’t explain it. He obviously couldn’t sleep next to Bernie for those two nights, but the guest room with the silk sheets was fine. He slept. Bernie, at least, seemed glad to see what he perceived as them getting along. Once she left, they got straight back into writing, and it wasn’t a problem at all.

The song Bernie had written the day she arrived turned out to be a foot-stomping disco song called ‘Bite Your Lip (Get Up and Dance!)’. The cat and dog inspiration turned out to be for the ‘top dog, top cat’ line in the chorus. Elton had a jab at himself as being the vision behind the ‘move that muscle and shake that fat’ part.

An instrumental called ‘Theme From A Non-Existent TV Series,’ because that was exactly what it was, was written. Another song called ‘One Horse Town’ came about some time after that. They fit nicely together. And with a small litter of songs written, the basis of another album was born.

It wasn’t clear to Elton which of them had actually came up with the idea of making another concept album, but it had come up at some point. And the bundle of songs they’d already written had already glued themselves to him, so to tell another story, something that the songs were already doing on their own, seemed only natural. That inspired more songs, poured out almost one after the other in the space of a week. Bernie had written a piece he called ‘Tonight’, a heart-rendering story about a relationship in its darkest hours. Elton did not have to take any wild guesses as to who he had in mind, and it was something he instantly connected to. That same night, and within an hour, Elton managed to make a full song out of it.

But it was that simple. It was like rowing a boat. Everything was working and turning the next cog. The lack of pressure from a contract breathing down your neck was insane. It made the process so much smoother. It was like the old days.

While things were going well, Elton insisted they bring what they’d made back to John, to show him. Prove how good the stuff they were coming up with was. How much more productive doing things this way, his way, their way, made them. And he wanted to see him. Watching Bernie and Juniper together had plucked threads inside of him loose, making him pine for something. He had to talk to John again. He had to fight, to dig up, until his fingers were raw and bleeding, what was buried under years of miscommunication and bad choices.

The tape clicked to a stop, the only sound left being the loud ticking of the clock. John pushed himself in a crescent on the swivel chair he had thrown himself into.

“This is bullshit,” he stated, matter-of-factly, finally. He raised his cigarette-holding hand to cradle his head, smoke fogging the small studio. “None of those are any good. Only half-good ones are the ‘Bite Your Lip’ one—it’s okay—and the other one. Whatever you call it.”

The smell that filled the room was already sickening. But the blatant lack of tact from his supposed other half made Elton cringe. He wasn’t sure how he could sit and try to have a heart-to-heart with someone after they criticised something you had poured your own heart into every crevice of.

“Tonight?” Bernie offered.

“That’s it. That’s like the rest of the shit you sing.” John hoisted his posture upright. The rapid sound of the pen in his other hand that he was now tapping against the desk was almost maddening. “It’s a bit long,” he said. “But you could always trim it.”

“Not doing that,” Elton said, holding his breath as an overwhelming waft of smoke got the better of him.

“Of course you won’t. But… none of them are hits. I can tell you now, it’s no number one album.”

“Good thing I don’t care about it being number one, then, isn’t it?”

“You might want to reconsider that. You should be trying to make your comeback record a good one.”

“It’s not a comeback record, John. It’s a record. I’m still having my break and this might not be out for another year. This isn’t it finished.”

“I sure hope not.”

Elton inhaled through gritted teeth. “I’m… doing what I want right now. Okay?”

“Well.” John pushed himself from the chair. “At least _try_ to write some good ones.”

“You know…” Elton sealed his mouth tight, figuring out how he wanted to put his next sentiment. “This is not the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”

John stopped at the door and turned back. “What do you want, do you want me to be like the rest of them and just tell you what you want to hear? I’m allowed my opinion.”

“No, I’m fine with you having an opinion, John. But I would’ve appreciated a ‘hi, how’re you?’, ‘oh, I’m fine, darling, you?’, at the very least, before you started telling me the songs I’ve been working on and really liking for the past few weeks are shit.”

“I’m just giving you some advice,” John said coolly.

“It doesn’t really matter what you say,” Elton said. “Because this is going to be the album we put out whether you like it or not. We both really like what we’ve done so far.” He looked to Bernie, who only supplied a nod. “Being my boyfriend, I was expecting you to be a little more supportive of me.”

John came back to tap his cigarette into the ashtray he’d set on the desk. “Oh, don’t go getting into that.”

“What? Am I insane for wanting that? Am I insane for— And who fucking said you could smoke in here? I told you—”

“Oh, give over,” John said. He pointed his cigarette towards Bernie like aiming a dart. “I thought you liked keeping things on the down-low when he was around. What changed?”

“I don’t care about that! Look, this isn’t going to work out if we can’t… if we can’t agree to disagree, if we can’t even get along. All telling me my songs are shit is going to do is make me feel like shit. Why would you do that? And I don’t want you smoking in here. It’s my house, and you totally disregard that, no matter what I say to you! It’s so disre-fucking-spectful.”

“Let’s not do this now.”

“No, let’s do it.”

Bernie jerked a thumb toward the door. “I can… leave?”

“You don’t have to. Stay.”

Bernie stayed put.

“Okay,” John said, stepping forward. “Well, on that same line, I told you your songs are shit, so you should respect my opinion. We can agree to disagree. Will you quit harassing me, please?”

“It’s not the same, John. Not the same at all. I want _my_ boyfriend to understand where I’m coming from. On everything. Do you think this can work if we’re always fighting like this, over such stupid shit? I’m serious. This isn’t the type of scenario I want to run into every time I come home to my _boyfriend_. Fucking insulting my songs, and smoking in my fucking house.”

“Well, you are the only one doing any fighting, pet. And you won’t have to worry about the smoke for too much longer. You’re going on tour in October.”

Elton’s voice was reduced to a choke of air. “What?”

“You heard.”

“You booked a tour?”

John released two shots of smoke from his nose.

Elton’s voice shot back again. “Without consulting me? _With_ the fucking knowledge that I don’t want to do that for a while? Why would you do that?”

“Listen. After you do these shows in New York, you can start your silly little aversion to touring then, and I won’t bother you about work-related things from that point on. You can have your break as long as you like. But you’re doing this. Whether you like it or not.”

That asshole.

“How many shows?”

“Sixteen.”

That fucking conniving asshole.

But he was right. He had to do it now. Not because it was booked, but because he had to please him. Agreeing to do this would be the start of getting things on the right track. Hopefully.

Elton measured his breath. “And you won’t arrange any more tours without my permission?”

“No,” John agreed. “Promise.”

He thought agreeing to the shows would make John like him again. He attempted to have another talk with him in the comfort of their bedroom, but it went along the same lines as the last talk had gone: ‘No, you know I love you,’ then resolving in bed.

Bernie said he would come with him to New York, and they could retreat to Lincolnshire afterwards. But right now, that didn’t help at all.

Elton had never doubted John’s apparent love for him more. In the coming weeks, he was rarely in the house, even more than before. He swore it was because he had other things to do—yes, he was his boyfriend, but he wasn’t just _his_ manager. While that was true, and Elton could allow him that excuse for the most part, he couldn’t help but feel it was due to his general waning lack of interest in him. No matter what Elton tried to do or sacrifice to appease John, it was never good enough. Any hints of love he felt back died in an instant and he had to pander for more. Times John did stay, he didn’t sleep next to him. Except for a few nights that you could count on one hand, where Elton had drunkenly begged him to. They still had sex, but it was out of routine; there was no affinity to it, no closeness bar that of skin.

Elton had always wanted a relationship. Like the ones you see in movies and on TV. What Bernie and Juniper had. He looked at the figureless space beside him in the bed and commanded tears back by shutting his eyes.

That wasn’t what he’d been dealt. But what he had, whatever it was, was the best he could get.

+

Bernie wasn’t staying. He had left three days ago. 

And it had been exactly two days since Elton last had any coke.

He’d blown through every last molecule and wasn’t able to contact his dealer, and the frustration and sheer indignation that crawled his skin was real, almost scary. He called him repeatedly, but got nothing. He considered getting into one of the cars and driving straight to his house, but John prevented that before it could begin to happen. Saying he didn’t need it that badly, that he was being stupid for being so hellbent. But what the hell did he know. So, instead, Elton ate copious amounts of food, mainly vanilla ice cream, in the middle of the night and purged it afterwards, and drank—because that was always available, and John was more liable to turn a blind eye to him doing that all day compared to the former anyway. He lay in bed every night, feeling miserable, exhausted, and restless, unable to sleep no matter how much he wanted it.

To get him over, he ended up taking sleeping pills—watchfully administered by John, who was now also insistent on holding onto the cabinet key.

Waking one afternoon, Elton still felt like utter shit. Shit personified. He was certain he was still drunk amidst a hangover. Slumped against a pillow, saliva dribbling out of his mouth and soaking it. Dismal daylight cracked through the curtains, almost blinding his mole-like eyes. The cold sensation of his own spit was unpleasant, but not enough to make him move.

John intruded, and Elton didn’t have to turn around and look at him to understand the loathing he had for what he was looking at. He was kicking the clutter of cans and bottles strewn through outfit changes Elton had shed onto the floor. It was a spot the difference between trash, clothes, and vomit stains on the rug.

“Look at the state of this. Disgusting. Glad I don’t sleep in here. You should feel lucky I come back here at all. Look at the bloody state of you. You have to go on tour in less than a month, you have to get it together.”

Elton groaned at the thought, trailing his fingers along the length of his exposed thigh.

“Can you get me something to eat please?” His voice was a dry rasp. His stomach gurgled loudly, reverberating through the innards of the mattress, and he clenched the muscles there. “I’m so hungry.”

“Whose fault is that? I’m not starving you.”

Elton peeled his cheek from the pillow to look at him desperately. “Please.”

“Can’t you go down and get something?” John asked, looking grimly at an unfortunate plate of stale food on the dresser. “You’ve got maids. Get one of them up here to have a look at you. Give one of them your orders. Or are you too ashamed of yourself?”

Elton dropped his head back to the damp patch with a hefty sigh. “Fine.”

“You’re gonna do that?”

“No,” he said sullenly. “Nevermind. Doesn’t matter.”

There was a few seconds’ pause, then John gave a reluctant breath.

“What do you want?”

“Crisps. Just get a whole load of— Actually, would you get me something from KFC? Some ice cream, too?”

John made another unenthusiastic sound.

“Please, I’m so hungry,” Elton added with an embarrassing sense of urgency in his voice. It felt like he was in a confessional. “I’m just… really hungry. And thirsty. Get me a load of things, you know what I like. Starving… You know what ice cream I like, too.”

“Fine,” John said, with a humiliating amount of revulsion in his. He walked to the mirror, reviewing his own appearance. He shuffled his tie and slicked stray hairs back. “Remember, we have my party later.” He met his own eyes in the mirror, then his reflection looked at Elton. “And you’re coming.”

Elton had forgotten about that. It was John’s birthday, but he still didn’t want to go. He hoped his face wasn’t showing it. He had told him that he didn’t want to go, wasn’t feeling it, for the past few days. It wasn’t even because of what happened the last time they went to Quicksand. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his room, nevermind the house. But he knew now that he had to go. It was the only way he could guarantee getting what he wanted in return.

Fuck, he hadn’t gotten him a present. But he could have that rectified with a snap of his fingers. Something as simple as a phone call could get three hundred red roses delivered to the front door. Or a brand new yacht with a ribbon on it.

Elton was woken up again by a startling thud on his chest, the sound of paper crackling around him.

He shot up onto his elbows, looking at the plethora of KFC bags that had hit his chest at once then bounced off, spilling some of their contents around him like grease-stained confetti.

“There you are.” John threw an abundance of crisp packets, half a dozen tubs of ice cream at him, then whacked his hands together like blackboard dusters. “Drunk bastard. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Elton mumbled. He pushed the sheets back a little, sat up further. He inhaled deeply—habitually. Perhaps longingly. There was no coke to be backing his airways, but he scrubbed his nose, then awkwardly waited for John to leave.

He didn’t. He continued to stand and watch, like a hunter staking out a rabbit hole. Elton rustled and scavenged through the bags, eating every last morsel, rendering himself painfully bloated and panting afterwards. Some of the ice cream lids had came off, their contents slowly leaking melted sticky patches onto the sheets.

“Can you see if you can get a hold of the coke now?” he asked.

“You’re not being sick after that,” John said, pointing at him, ignoring his request. “You already reek of it, and I don’t want to be walking around with you smelling any worse than you already do. And I didn’t buy that amount of food for you to go and fuck it all down the toilet straight after. Don’t… do it. I’d like you to have a shower, but we both know you won’t do that. Move. Get up, get dressed, get ready. We have to be out of here in about—” He indicated to his watch. “Three hours.” He moved towards the door, then hung on the frame. “Oh, and at least wear something decent.”

Elton flung himself from the bed. “Please let me… let me be sick. Even just a bit.”

“I just told you.” John almost laughed. “No.”

Elton mewled, clenching his stomach. “Please, I have to.”

“Go ahead and see what happens.”

Elton took the baited admission and moved into the en suite. John followed him, watching from the door as he thrust his fingers down his throat.

“Do you know how pathetic you look? How pathetic you are? Christ, I can’t stand the sight of you. Really, I- I can’t.”

“Stop it, John,” Elton pleaded, wiping his mouth and looking back. “Don’t say that.”

“I can say what I want about you. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Remember that.” John’s eyes widened fleetingly, then his features sank into a smirk. “Also, doing what you’re doing now doesn’t make a difference. You’ve been doing the same thing for years, and it still hasn’t done you any favours.”

Elton sighed, then spat more of the sour taste into the bowl, a viscous string stuck to his lip.

“You’ll still be fat no matter what you do. Because you lack self-control.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re fat.”

Immediately, he snapped and cried. A sob echoed. “Stop it.”

“You’re fat.”

“Come on, stop that…”

“Fat. You are literally the fattest person I’ve ever been with.”

“Don’t… Please stop saying that.”

“You are. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth, Elton. Isn’t that what you always want from me? You’re fat.”

“I know!”

“And it’s disgusting. The lack of pride you have in yourself. The state of you, actually. You _should_ be ashamed of yourself.”

“I am! I am fucking ashamed of myself.” He sniffled loudly, shakily standing up. “Why do you do this to me? What do you have to think of a person to treat them like this? I’m really sorry for whatever it is I did. Everything. Please stop it, you’re making me feel really bad. I’m sorry…”

“Oh, how terrible. Don’t apologise to me, pet, apologise to yourself.”

“Why can’t you just be good to me? Why can’t you encourage me instead of being so fucking Goddamn mean to me? Please. I’m serious, why can’t you be nice to me for once? What did I do? Do you hate me ‘cause I’m fat? Then why’d you ever want me in the first place? I’ve always been fat, you knew that. I even _asked_ if it was okay. Remember? I will never be a stick, John. I _can’t_ lose weight with you making me so miserable… it fucking makes me wanna eat.”

“Don’t blame me for your gluttony. That’s all on you, darling. Always has been, always will.”

His lip quivered, and more sobbing erupted. “Why can’t you just be fucking good to me?”

“Good to you?” John swept in closer now, and Elton flinched. “Listen, nobody is ever going to be as good to you as I’ve been. Nobody ever has, they aren’t going to start when I finally wise up and leave you. Am I right or wrong?”

Elton bowed his head, crying. He covered his face.

“Am I right or wrong? Answer me!”

Elton shrieked, shoulders jolting like they’d been knocked out of their sockets. “No!” Regathering some sort of composure, he crossed his arms over his bare chest, sneaking one hand out for a second to swipe at a tear that slid down his cheek.

“No, what?”

“No, you’re not wrong.”

“You should be feeling lucky you’ve gotten it as good as you have from me,” John spat, his expression darkening even more. “You don’t deserve a single thing I’ve done for you. You’re pathetic… talking to me like that. You ungrateful son of a bitch. What do you want from me, then? What more could you possibly want, darling? When I have given you everything.”

His knees were almost knocking. “I don’t want you to give me anything but a bit of compassion, John. That’s it. I’m so, so sick of this. All I really want is for you to treat me like you love me for a change.”

“I can’t believe this. What _do_ you want? Do you want me to get up and leave? Is that it?”

Elton’s face twisted. “No.”

“Is that what you want me to do? Because if it is, I’ll get my things and I’ll leave, and you won’t hear from me again. Is that what you want me to do? Would that make you happy, you selfish pig? Do you want to be here on your own?”

He breathed in deeply and released it, shaking his head. “No!”

“You know what? No. You need to take a look at yourself. Right now.” John grabbed his arm, yanking him forward, and carted him back out to the bedroom to stand him in front of the mirror. “Take a look. Take a quick look at that.”

Elton scrunched his eyes shut. “No, don’t.”

“Look!”

“Please, don’t make me do this.”

“Look.” He jostled the arm he was holding. “If you don’t, I’ll describe it to you. Look. Now.”

Elton forced himself to open his eyes, and they took intervals catching on every part of himself he hated the most. Tears swam down his cheeks.

“This is what I have to deal with every day. This. Look. Look at it. You’re twenty nine years old. And you look like you’re forty nine. You look middle-fucking-aged. Look at yourself. You’re a mess. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so, so tragic.”

Elton’s breath caught in his throat. “Stop it…”

“You’re disgusting, pathetic. An idiot. You’re a fucking joke.”

“No, I’m not, John.”

“Yes, you are. Fucking thoughtless, fat idiot. It’s no wonder people don’t care about you.”

Elton tried and failed to pull back from John’s vice-like, sure-to-bruise grip. “What the fuck are you talking about? Millions of people care about me.”

“I don’t mean like that. Name one person you _know_ that cares about you.”

Elton opened his mouth.

“Except Bernie. Don’t say Bernie. Name one person who cares.”

“You…”

“Name one person who goes out of their way to come and see you,” John went on, too deafened by his own rage to hear Elton’s pitiful attempt at an answer. He was jabbing the mirror furiously on every other word. “In fact, I’d say even Bernie himself wouldn’t make the effort if he could bear to tell you. He’s bound to be as sick of your shit as everyone else is. He’s far too soft on you.”

“That’s not true…”

John lifted his brow. _You sure?_

He wasn’t.

“And yes,” John continued, “technically, millions of people care about you. But they don’t know you. They care about the fake version of you. Your own parents, your _mother_ , doesn’t care. What does that say?”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“It says they know you. The pathetic, real you. They can see this.” His finger made a _thunk_ on the mirror.

“Do you not care about me?” Elton whimpered.

“Sometimes you make it difficult,” John said, then looked the mirror up and down. “You wanna know what else I see?”

Elton shook his head profusely.

“Do you wanna know what I _really_ see? Hm? What I’ve always seen? What I’ve seen for all these fucking years?” He passed a smirk through the mirror then brought his mouth close to Elton’s ear. The words were cursed, he said them so quietly. “Reginald. Dwight.”

It felt like a punch in the gut. His breath caught again, and his mouth turned inwards.

“Look. That’s who that is. That’s you. There. Do you see him? Elton John isn’t real. Never has been. It’s all in your head.” He prodded his finger against Elton’s temple now. “That isn’t who you are, and you _know_ it isn’t. It’s fake. Like the rest of this bullshit: the vomiting bullshit, the fucking self harm.” He lifted Elton’s arm and dropped it like a ragdoll. “It’s pathetic. Like you. All in your head.”

Then John dragged his chin towards him, kissed his lips, harsh, then lingered. Elton was stunned silent, paralyzed, eyebrows drawn.

“Why?” he asked. “Why do that? Why kiss me if you think I’m so disgusting?”

“Because…” John brushed the backs of his fingers across his cheek, caressing. He could feel his breath on his face. “I know how it gets you going. I know everything about you, more than even you do. And I know if I do something just right, you’ll do anything I ask.” He clamped his hand on the nape of his neck. “You _belong_ to me. The only thing I have to do is kiss you, or fuck you to— in fact, no, I don’t even have to fuck you, I only have to touch you, don’t I, darling? And I can get you to do anything I want. I don’t have to be attracted to you.”

“You’re not attracted to me?”

John roared a deep laugh. “Jesus Christ. Did you not hear a word I said? You are such a fucking idiot. I keep the lights off, for a reason, when I have to fuck you.” He jabbed the mirror again then lifted the pendant swaying at Elton’s chest, ran his thumb over it. His eyes were black with malignance, but he smiled. “I own you.” Then, with the utmost amount of sincerity he could muster: “But you _disgust_ me.”

Tears came harder now and Elton pushed at his solid frame. “You have to get out.”

John shook his head slowly. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“Yes, you fucking do!” Elton shouted back, shoving him again. “I’m telling you to! It’s my house, get out of it. I’m not doing any of the shit you want me to. I’m not going on tour, I’m not going to your stupid, fucking party. I’m not doing any of it. Leave—”

John grabbed him, handcuffing his wrists with bare hands.

“Get off me!”

John steered him into the bathroom and slammed the door.

There was a loud click in the lock.

“Locked in your favourite room for a few hours,” John announced cheerfully. “That should be great fun for you. Don’t enjoy yourself too much, though, you’re still coming to my party.”

“I am not!” Elton banged both fists against the door. “And you’ve got the cabinet key, you bastard.”

There was a clink and a shove on the floor. The key hit his foot.

“All yours,” John said, bastard smirk detectable through the door. “Knock yourself out.”

Elton tried the handle, but it was rigid. The inner lock latch handle was _gone._ He pummelled his hands back into the door. “If you do this,” he started slowly, breath catching. “If you lock me in here, I’m going to go crazy. I’m going to go fucking crazy, John, seriously. I’ll- I’ll rip the rest of my hair out, I’ll fucking destroy this place.” He paddled his fist into the door until his hand felt numb, pleading, “John. _Don’t. Don’t_ lock me in. Please.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” John said. “As you say, it’s your house. So, please, do to it as you wish, Reg. Go wild wrecking it. I’m not gonna stop you.”

The shadows of his feet beneath the door stepped away.

“You fucking bastard! You bastard! Let me fucking out! I hate this, you know I do! Let me out right now! You can’t do this! LET ME OUT!”

He hit the door a hundred more times before turning and crumpling to the floor, his back rubbing down the wood burning him slightly. But he didn’t care. He sobbed, head in his hands, fingers coiled tight in strands of his hair. He whacked his head twice, his skull left feeling fully charged with static. He wailed and screamed, his entire body racking. He kept making attempts: trying the door, hitting it, begging to be allowed out. Even though he knew it was useless. John wasn’t there. If he was, and was sitting away from the door, perhaps on the bed or by the piano so that he could still listen, like the sadistic man he was, he wasn’t going to help.

Elton lifted the key from the tile next to him. The only feasible option in his mind was to kill himself. It was mostly anger giving him the idea. Partly hatred. That’d show him. He could leave the bath running, flood the place, give him another issue to deal with after the fact.

He hastily unlocked the cabinet door, breathing heavy. He knocked a few pill bottles out into the sink, not caring what they were. He deviated from that to fill the tub, turning both taps on at full force, the spray splashing his hot skin with tiny, icy droplets. His head felt light, his breathing serrated and loud, even in the thick of the plummeting water.

He struck his head, yelling his voice ragged, doing it again and again. Inconsolable. This was inconsolable. He had to die right now.

He thumped his hand on the counter, making him yelp, before he stripped the towels off their stand one by one, balling them up and gripping them, pulling both ends apart in infeasible attempts to tear them. He threw them in opposite directions then returned to the pills. He scrambled to open a few bottles, dropping the cocktail into his mouth, then going back for another handful, swallowing the lot in sections with bouts of the still-running bath water. He lifted one of the rattling bottles and smashed its corner against the cabinet’s mirror, having to do it twice before the glass decided to crack. He hit it again, and slices of mirror splintered; some fell onto the counter and some onto the floor.

He lifted a piece and frustratedly, spontaneously dug it into the skin on his abdomen. He trailed it sideways before dropping it, the crimson pooling out of the cut and streaking down spattered on his feet and the tile below.

He walked carefully, on the tense curves of his feet, over the sand-like grains of mirror among the larger shards.

The bath was almost full.

He let his knees buckle and bang against the outer shell of the bath with a hollow gong. His mind ran over the previous altercation, everything he said and did, in a chopped, sped-up fashion: flashes, then he let himself drop headfirst into the body of water, skull clunking the porcelain. The thoughts continued. He was holding his breath, for some reason. Kind of stupid. He supposed he didn’t want to feel himself drown; inhaling water would be terrible. He’d rather wait until he wasn’t aware. He shut his eyes. He should be gone in an hour.

When he began reaching what he could only decipher as being on the brink of becoming moribund, there was a muted click above the surface of the water. The lock. There was muffled and strange, distorted footsteps, then a clamp on his wrist that yanked him out of the water. He gasped and spluttered, eyes unable to make out anything, before he was thrown to the floor in a sopping heap. His knees and palms impaled with millions of pieces of spiteful glass.

“You silly fucker. Get up. Get the fuck up!”

“You threw me—” Elton tried, his voice had dried up. His eyes were unable to stay open. He scrubbed at them.

“You selfish cunt. Get up. Move.” John grabbed his arms, pulling him up, then he pinned him against the wall, harsh hand vicing around his neck. “You selfish fucking bastard.”

He tightened his grip, making Elton choke and attempt to pry him off, try to wedge his fingers between his, weakly pawing at his hand like a cat with no claws.

“If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s not gonna be you.”

Elton looked at him myopically. He was slightly blurry, but close enough that Elton could make him out. His face was like nothing he’d ever seen before. He’d been scared of him before, sure, but he’d never feared him like this. His voice was almost conversational. His face, stare: vacant. He looked evil. Completely. Sweat collected below the water on Elton’s skin, and the feeling it struck him with was comparable only to an imaginary encounter with Satan himself. And, right then, it was clear that John Reid was as capable of doing anything he would.

“Don’t ever—” John said slowly, lowly, digging his fingers deeper. “ _Ever_ fucking do something so stupid again. Do you hear me?” He jolted his hand against his throat like a shotgun slide. “Don’t ever try that shit again. Do you fucking hear me?”

Elton coughed and wheezed. His face was numb, features bulging. He could hear him, but couldn’t muster the will, the energy, the breath to say anything.

John smacked his spare hand’s knuckles against his cheek, making him yell.

“Do you hear me?”

Elton managed a breath. “Yes!”

John unhooked his hand from his neck, grappling his face instead, thumb smushing his cheek into his eye, his other four fingers painfully clawing into the other side of his face.

Winded, Elton breathed rapidly, resounding off John’s palm. His dazed eyes were struck wide.

He really was going to do it. Kill him. He was going to do it this time.

“You can do whatever else you want. You can drug yourself up, you can drink yourself fucking stupid, for all I care. You can even cut and smack yourself in the head as much as your heart desires.” His grip tightened. “But don’t ever, ever, do that again. Don’t dare try to kill yourself. Do you understand?”

Elton attempted to nod.

“I know your life is fucking miserable,” John said. “God knows I’d want to kill myself if I was you. But that’s your own fault. It’s your fault you’re miserable. If you killed yourself, I’d be the one stuck dealing with your mess. As fucking always. Is that what you want for me?”

Elton tried to say ‘No.’

“I’d be the one who has to talk to the press. I’d be the one doing everything. All because you’re too weak. And you’d be getting off scot-free. As per usual. You selfish _fucking_ pig.”

He let go then, and Elton clutched at his face, knees bending below him.

“And you can bet your ass I’m not cleaning up after you this time.” John glanced at the cabinet. “I can see you did go into your pills. So, I’ll let you lie down for a while, get that over you. But once you’re able to, you’re going to be the one in here cleaning all of this up. Whether you can stand or not. You can do it on your hands and knees.”

“Okay!” A cry, though his voice was a whisper. “Sorry!”

John shook his head disapprovingly. “And don’t be thinking this caper has gotten you out of going to the party. You’re still coming.” His cold hand patted Elton’s shoulder. “Happy birthday to me, eh?”

Elton whimpered and John moved out into the bedroom, saying, “You fucking disgust me.”

+

Quicksand was the very last place he wanted to go to. Bruises were already starting to form, dark red and angry, over his face and neck. Distinct fingerprints on his upper arm. The slice on his stomach went untreated.

His plan from the offset was to drink as much as he possibly could, try to get his hands on as much coke as he could. Now, the need to make the night blend together, to get home again as soon as fucking possible, had strengthened, too. What would happen after that, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to.

He cleaned the bathroom the best he could while listening to the tub drain. The sound seemed to go on for the entire length of time it took to lift every shard of glass and swipe up every liquid, red and clear. It gurgled and bellowed like something trying to make its way up from Hell.

He had a shower. He put on a pair of pink velvet parachute-like trousers and a plain white t-shirt that had a circular motif with ‘LIFE’S A BEACH’ lining the inside in block letters. John made no comment about the outfit choice he had called on to be decent, but his face said he didn’t like it. It also said he didn’t expect anything less. But that was good. That was the point. As trivial as it was. He definitely wasn’t getting a birthday present now, either.

Elton completed the look with a fuzzy pink hat, pink-tinted star-shaped glasses, pink jacket, and hot pink, high-heeled boots, baggy trousers tucked in.

John made the choice to take the car and drive them there himself. For some reason. It was unsettling. Not only because he’d made it apparent that he had no aversion to drinking and driving, but the drive there was reckless, even without any alcohol. Carole King was singing ‘It’s Too Late’ through the nearly-muted radio while he sped and abruptly screeched around corners, opposing headlights blurring past the windscreen. Perhaps it was too late, for a lot of things.

Elton’s shoulder hit the door and he grabbed his hat, the other fist curling into the seat’s fabric.

“Slow fucking down!”

John paid no attention, and didn’t heed it. But at least he was keeping his eyes on the road. Plus, he would never be careless enough to put himself in danger. He wouldn’t kill himself.

Approaching Quicksand was surreal in the most infuriating way. The sign’s glow was self-righteous. The entrance and the street it fell on were oozing people like a quagmire. Three times more attendees than the last time. All of them far too happy to be seeing John. The apprehensive feelings from the last time resurfaced, except this time, Elton knew exactly why they were occurring. It didn’t help that he was still feeling limp and loopy from the surplus of painkillers still left swimming in his veins.

People lined the narrow corridors, pushing one another against the wall with tongues down throats, not hands around. Others were slouched in pools of liquor on the floor.

They headed straight upstairs to lounge one. Elton couldn’t force his expression to seem pleased to be there. People frolicked up to them to shout hello and offer John their well wishes. Elton couldn’t help rolling his eyes each time. Not at the well-wishers themselves, per se, more so at John, who was being so overly friendly and gracious in return. He wasn’t genuine at all. He didn’t give a fuck. He probably didn’t really know half of these people. And they clearly didn’t know him.

They crossed the first batch of people, then were confronted with a second. It was apparent they were going to have to filter through several hordes of people like barricades before he could even get a drink.

“I don’t want to be here,” Elton hissed.

John continued haughtily shaking a mustachioed man’s hand and replied from the crook of his smile: “Thanks, darling.”

“I don’t _know_ any of these people. They’re all your friends.”

“That’s because it’s my birthday.” John finally looked at him for the first time since before the hour-long car ride. He briefly stared, warningly, then moved onto the next bunch.

Elton followed reluctantly. “I feel stupid.”

“That’s because you look stupid,” John said, and kept smiling, clamping his hand to a short-haired girl’s. “Stacey, my darling. It’s great to see you! Yes, you know Elton.”

She fluttered a wave Elton’s way and John kissed the hand he was holding.

Elton grimaced. “Why do you even want me here?”

“It’s keeping up appearances, pet,” John said, then expressed how deeply thankful he was to the next person for their company tonight. He turned back to Elton briefly, keeping his tone quiet. “Why don’t you go and help yourself to some cake? It’s right over there, look. And you know where the bathrooms are. Julianna should be here, too. Go and find her to talk to. Quit bugging me.”

With that, Elton shouldered his way through the wall of people crescenting around them. Fuck them. _Fuck him._ He wasn’t going to do as he said. He marched past the table with the tower of cake and made his way directly to the bar. He ordered a glass of Chateau Du Castel wine before he ordered his regular martini, even though he’d never been a huge fan of it. But it was the most expensive drink they had to offer, and it was John who would be paying for the end of the night’s bill. He necked a few glasses of the stuff.

“Elton!”

Elton looked towards the sound that crept in through the music.

Sam and Julianna. Julianna waved, bobbing up and down.

Elton flashed a smile at them, lifting his hand enough for a wave. He didn’t bother to move towards them, so they came to him. Sam patted his arm. Julianna flung her arms around him, squeezing, but not overly tight.

“It’s so good to see you,” she said, pulling back and smiling, her tiny hands still planted in his sleeves. She wasn’t wearing her glasses.

“Good to see you, too,” Elton told her, and meant it.

Her glazed, drunk eyes flickered between his. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Same shit.”

“Well, you look great,” she said, accompanied with an earnest nod. She took her hands back and crossed her arms loosely. “I’m loving the outfit.”

“Thanks, darling.” Elton turned to the bartender hovering at his back, and held up two fingers.

“I mean it. And you smell amazing!”

“Well, I’d like to think so. The last time you seen me I was dripping with vomit.”

The bartender prodded his shoulder and Elton turned to lift the two drinks. He handed Julianna hers and put his own to his lips.

“I’d fucking like to think I smell better now. There’d be something very wrong if I didn’t.”

“Little martini for me? Thank you,” Julianna cheeped, surprised as she accepted her glass. Then she fluttered her eyes and laughed, scrunching her lips as if saying, ‘And don’t remind me.’

“Let’s try to have a _good_ time tonight,” Sam interjected. “Okay?”

Elton was transfixed on John, who was still waltzing around.

“Try’s a good word,” he said.

They loitered at the bar, stacking their sentience with countless alcoholic beverages. Elton began rocking his weight from foot to foot, not knowing how to position his stance. This was usually the point at which breeziness, carefreeness, and the feeling of being completely untroubled would set in. This time, it was the opposite. He couldn’t take his eyes or mind off John. Who was sauntering around the place with that envied nonchalance, jaunty walk, and not a fucking care. It was like he knew he was watching, too; every movement was so aggravatingly choreographed. But he didn’t make that apparent, he didn’t return a glance his way, not even once, not even sparingly.

“Is everything okay? Between you two?”

Elton looked at Julianna, who must have been able to read his barely-concealed grudge-bearing. Her stick-thin eyebrows were pinned together, eyes scanning him cautiously.

“I know things are never perfect,” she continued, gingerly touching his arm. “For anyone. But is everything okay? How are you feeling, honey?”

“I’m feeling fine,” Elton said, eyes ticking to relocate his target.

A feather-like finger traced his cheek.

“What are those marks on you?”

Elton looked at her again.

“What? Nothing. He’s just being a dick. _No._ We’ll be fine.”

Julianna stared on. They kept drinking, and when John departed from his disciples, he walked up and rested his elbow on the bar.

“Julianna.” John tipped his head, then his eyes skipped over Elton. “Sam.”

He said hello, then they both made themselves scarce, turning and slipping their attention back into their glasses.

“Do you not think you’ve had enough to drink, darling?” John said, nodding at the plethora of glasses surrounding him. “That’s an awful lot.”

Elton glared at him.

“You were drinking before we left, too.”

He reached to flatten a stray hair on Elton’s head, but Elton batted his hand.

“Don’t… touch me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John declared, purposefully loud. He pouted his lips, but the pucker was being drawn apart by a smirk. “Are you not feeling the best tonight, sweetheart?” He pinned his hand on top of Elton’s on the bar, thumbing the butterfly ring. “You should’ve said. Drinking’s not the way to deal with it, pet. We’ve talked about this. You should’ve stayed at home if you were feeling under the weather. Oh, you poor thing.”

Elton growled, deep in his throat, pulling his hand from below his. He lifted his drink and leaned closer. “Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

He drank deep from the glass and turned back to face Julianna.

After overhearing John ordering a Harvey Wallbanger, and after a few more drinks of their own, Julianna offered a look, that, after some piecing together, Elton was able to identify that she was trying to communicate that he was gone.

“Are you okay?” she shouted through the music, twirling a finger around her ear and spilling some alcohol onto her blouse. “He’s _crazy!_ ”

“You’re right about that, darling.”

She grazed her own cheek with her cornflower-painted fingernail. “ _Did_ he do that to you?”

Elton’s fingers were tense around the glass currently in his hand. He said nothing, he couldn’t bring himself to say a word: lies or otherwise. But he was sure his wordlessness told her the truth he couldn’t admit.

“That’s not okay,” she said, after some serious, drunken contemplation. “You deserve better, that’s really not okay. He shouldn’t be treating you like that.”

Elton downed the last of his drink, and the clarity that came attached hit him like a ton of bricks.

He had to find John. He needed to try to talk to him, one more time. He didn’t want to go home, and the arguments, bitterness, getting the shit kicked out of him, to continue. The ruins of their relationship were on their last legs. There wouldn’t be many more chances, if any, to make it liveable.

He told Julianna of his plans before slinking off, maneuvering around and through the dense sea of people whose pores were seeping alcoholic fumes. He made his way to the roof top to scour it, but he wasn’t there. Just clusters of people throwing drinks back and laughing unrealistically loud. He made his way back down to the club, doing another lap, until he saw the distinguishable back of his head through the congestion of people. Elton took in a breath and released it before marching towards him.

The closer he came, he was able to make out that John wasn’t alone. He had another man pinned to the wall, and not in the way he had done to him less than two hours ago. He was kissing him. They were kissing. Roaming hands down the front of the other’s jeans.

Elton’s eyes stung, then his vision clouded with a murkiness that was almost blinding. His tears receded and his fists furled.

“Hey!”

John didn’t react.

He shouted it again, even louder, this time bringing his hand down hard on his shoulder, pulling him backwards. It felt as though the music should have stopped to make a true spectacle of this.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

John pointedly licked his teeth. “Having some fun, Reg. You should give it a go.”

Rage burnt its way up Elton’s body, encrusting him and almost exploding from behind his eyes. “I’ll give you a go, you asshole. Shut the fuck up. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t make a scene, you look stupid enough as it is.”

“You’re fucking right I look stupid.”

John remained unfazed and Elton shoved against his sturdy chest, then pelted him repeatedly.

“You piece of shit! Fuck you. Piece of fucking shit. You fucking rat. _Still_ fucking cheating on me. You’re still fucking cheating on me!”

“I’m not _cheating_ on you.”

Elton held his hand out towards the other guy, who was still standing behind, stupefied.

“What do you call that?”

John rolled his eyes and grinned, in a ‘you’re so typical’ way.

“I should’ve fucking known!”

“What should you have known?”

“Better,” Elton spat. “That you hadn’t stopped being a fucking cunt. That you’re never going to stop being a cunt. You’re—” He inhaled hard, anger rising him onto the balls of his feet. “Get the fuck away from me. Get away.”

“Grow up.”

“Get away from me!”

Elton furled his fists tighter, purposefully digging his fingernails as hard as he could against his palms. He couldn’t stop shaking his head, tears beginning to flood in behind his eyes yet again.

Of course he cheated on him. That’s what all of this was. That’s what it had always been. There never had been any progress. It was one step forward, twenty back. It had probably never ended. This, what he had witnessed, was a continuation, picking up where one left off.

Elton took himself outside and forced himself to breathe in the crisp air. Repeated breaths, but none were satiating. There was a funky smell that crawled into the back of his throat. He cursed below his breath and groaned, fucking furious. He clenched his teeth hard, part of him hoping they’d break.

There were two tall girls, scarves wrapped around both of their heads in a ‘20s-esque fashion, loose dress sleeves slipping down their shoulders. The smell of weed was coming from them. He approached them and snatched the joint they were sharing from one of their elevated hands.

“Can I have some of this?”

He took a couple of draws as they glowered at each other. They said nothing, so Elton took a third. He offered it back to them, trying to slip it into the hand of the girl he’d taken it from, which was still frozen in place.

“Here. Sorry. Sorry for just doing that—”

The girl clammed her hand shut. “No. Take it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“Oh.” Elton looked the joint in its fiery centre. “Well, thank you.”

“Yeah, dude,” her friend said, making her eyes big as if telling him, ‘Now, scram.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small tin, warily turning away as she opened it.

“Thank you,” Elton said one more time, taking a drag. The girls acted like he wasn’t there. He offered another quiet apology as he turned and walked away. At least they had more.

He stood and continued to smoke the joint a couple of feet away from them, but it wasn’t giving him the desired feeling he stole it for. The dizzy lightness it brought on, on top of being quite drunk, was welcome, but it didn’t subdue the anger, frustration, rejection, betrayal. Or plain fucking hurt.

The club doors behind him bludgeoned open with a crack that could only be from one person.

“Are you happy with yourself?”

“Not really,” Elton said, turning. Seeing his face injected him with a new spat of anger.

“Ah, I see you’ve scrounged some weed. Very classy. Well, when you’re finished with that, will you be calmed down enough to come back inside? Will you have finished huffing, do you think?”

Elton took a spiteful draw. He almost laughed, and the smoke tickled his throat. “I’m not coming back inside.”

“So what’re you gonna do? Gonna stand out here all night?”

“Might.”

“You’re such a stroppy brat.”

“Yup.”

John’s features dropped. “Just come back inside.”

“Who’s gonna make me?”

“You’re making _another_ scene. Get in. Stop acting like a brat.”

“Fuck you, I think I’ve every right to make a bloody scene.”

“Do you want a repeat of last time?”

“Oh, look at him threatening me! My boyfriend fucking threatening me, ladies and gentlemen, who would’ve thought?” Elton said, looking around at the other people who were paying them discreet attention. “I think I am fully entitled to making a scene. Would anyone agree? If your boyfriend fucking cheats on you, do you think you’ve got a right to make a scene? I think so.”

John walked closer, flashing his palm. “ _Stop_ calling me your boyfriend.”

“What, are you ashamed of me or something? They already know you fuck me, John. They are your supposed friends, after all. No need—”

“No, just keep your voice down. Don’t call me that.”

“I fucking won’t be after this, don’t worry.”

“Right, okay. Sure you won’t. Now, shut up and come back inside.”

“No.”

“Yes.” John seized his arms, then hushed: “Don’t do this. Please, come back inside. It’s nothing. We’ll talk about it later—”

“No,” Elton protested, scrabbling his arms from him. “Get off. We will not talk about this later. We _talked_ enough before we left, did we not?”

“Well, I drove you here,” John said with a patronising sneer. “You can’t walk home.”

“Who says so?”

“It’d take you all night. Idiot. And, face it, you wouldn’t walk home even if we lived up the road.”

“Fuck off.”

“You wouldn’t walk the length of yourself, you lazy bastard. Who’re you kidding?”

“Go and fuck yourself, hard,” Elton said, kissing the joint and exhaling. “I’d rather take my chances walking than get in the car with you again.”

“Get inside.”

“I’m sorry?” Elton cupped his ear and craned his neck forward, raising his eyebrows so far up, he felt his forehead crinkle. “Are you deaf?”

“Fine. Make a fool of yourself out here. I don’t care.”

John pivoted on his heel.

“Bastard,” Elton barked. “Oh, please do forgive me, John, for not wanting to stand and watch while you shove your tongue down people’s throats all night when you won’t even fucking look at me at home. I’m clearly not worthy of your _fucking_ time.”

John turned back. “That’s what this is?”

Elton’s heartbeat shot up again, his hands clammy with cold perspiration.

“Yes! What else would it fucking be? You cheated on me! You treat me like shit at home, then you bring me out here, against my will, and cheat on me. Again. How do you expect—”

“I didn’t bring you here against your will. I wanted you to come. There’s a difference. Now, I’m starting to wonder why I did. And it’s not that big of a deal. You—”

Elton jabbed his finger against his chest. “How is it not a big fucking deal?”

“Don’t,” John said, hand engulfing his. Slowly, he crushed it. “Don’t you point that stubby little finger at me. And don’t interrupt me.”

“I’ll do what I want.” Elton pulled his hand back with so much force he whacked himself in the chest. “That’s what you were doing. That’s what you _always_ do. What happened to, ‘I thought we were past this, Elton,’ ‘You know I’d never do that again, Elton,’ or, how about my favourite: ‘I love you, Elton’?” He scanned his face, desperately, for some change, some form of remorse. It remained stone cold. “What about any of that?”

“Grow _up_.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Cry me a fucking river, will you? Do you hear yourself? It was only going to be a quick shag.”

That sent another blow to Elton’s chest, the remains sinking to the base of his spine. The club door opened again at that moment, and Julianna and Sam stepped out.

“Oh my God,” Elton said, vicing his head between his hands. Then another bolt of rage shot through him. He dropped his hands and threw the dead joint up the street. “You were going to _fuck_ him?”

“What’d you think I was going to do? Take him out for a picnic? It is a nice night for it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Elton wailed, voice finally fully snapping in half. Lava-hot tears poured over onto his cheeks. “You tried to make me think I had nothing to worry about, meanwhile you… What did I do to you? Why do you fucking hate me?”

“Maybe because you get on like this at birthday parties.”

“Whose fault is that?” Elton fired back, using one of his own phrases against him, but it didn’t really carry the same effect when you were sobbing. “It’s your fucking fault. Yours. You son of a bitch.”

“I think you’ll find that, if you remember correctly, that better describes _you_.”

 _“Oh, shut up.”_ Elton wiped at his cheeks with his sleeve. “I’m walking home. And you better not fucking come back to my house. If you come back to my house, I will kill you.”

“You threatening me?”

“That’s the least you deserve.” Elton fought against the constriction of his words. “Before I go, do you want to tell your friends what you fucking did to me before you forced me to come here tonight?” His eyes were stagnant on him, the scene was drawing a more-attentive, still-quiet crowd in his peripherals. “They don’t _fucking_ know you. In fact, do any of those fucking people in there know what you’re really like? I’m sure most of them know you’re a bastard when you drink, but I bet not a single fucking one of them know that you’re just as bad day-to-day. I’d bet my life that none of them would have came here tonight if they knew you half as much as I do. But I suppose you save it all for me, don’t you? Because none of them would take the fucking _bullshit_ that I do. Tell you what, you’re right about one thing, John.”

John lifted his brow. _What’s that?_

“I am a fucking idiot. I am a complete fucking idiot. I’m an idiot for dealing with your shit for so long.”

John, still, being so unaffected, so above it, filled him with a feeling that was indescribable. A rock formed in his throat and he swallowed it, and it overtook him, heavy in his guts, tears obscuring his view. “You are the worst fucking person I’ve ever known, and I wish I’d never fucking met you. Ever. I can’t believe I ever thought I loved you. I can’t believe I ever thought you loved me. You’ve ruined my life. I’m going home.”

Elton left, teeth burying in his lower lip.

“Go on. I’ll pick you up on my way past you in a few hours, then, shall I?”

“Elton, wait!”

Julianna clicked after him.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered, keeping his face from her. He licked the metallic taste of blood from a raw spot he’d made in his mouth.

“Elton.” Julianna rushed in front of him, curled her hair behind her ear. “Don’t go.”

“I’m going. Move.”

“No, no, no, come back to mine. We’re going, too.” She pointed to Sam. “We’re getting a taxi.”

“A taxi?” Elton glanced between the oncoming road, the stretch of nothingness and the hours it would take, then at Sam and Julianna’s faces. It seemed terrible, he didn’t really want to, but it was probably the best option he had. “Fine.”

Julianna scooped Elton’s hand up and led him around the corner, where the three of them took refuge on a corner building’s lofty front step. Elton sat between them, and no one said anything as they waited. Julianna cradled Elton’s hand in her lap.

+

Back at Julianna’s flat, it was 3am.

They huddled on the lavish sofas with mugs of tea, cocaine serving as the alternative side snack to an alternated tea-for-three. Elton made a joke about Julianna wearing contacts, suggesting her lack of glasses was her way of paying homage to what happened to him the last time he was there, and asked what she would do to commemorate this time. She asked if she could know what happened, and Elton divulged everything that had taken place—before and during the party.

“That’s crazy,” Julianna whispered into her mug, shaking her head slightly. “I knew he was…” She stopped shaking her head to tilt it to the side, making a face. “Like that.” She shook her head once more. “But I never really imagined how _bad_ he could get.”

“Do you not remember the last time at Quicksand?” Sam said, voice squeaking on the last syllable. “The dude’s nuts. My whole view on him changed that day. Mind you, the only reason I went to his birthday party tonight was because you wanted to go. I wouldn’t have went otherwise.”

“True,” Julianna said. “Like, I knew he had _anger issues_.” She said the words like they were prickly on her tongue. “Right? But… I can’t believe it. You must’ve been… tortured.” She stared into her mug for a moment. “It must be awful… The only reason _I_ wanted to go to his party was to see you. I wanted to see how you were, since I hadn’t seen you since, well, that last time.”

Elton smiled a little. “I appreciate that.”

“No worries…” she said sadly, resting her arm over her lap, hand limply hanging off the edge as a breath fell from her lips. “It’s not you, by the way. Don’t let him make you think that it is.”

“Yeah,” Elton said, but he was barely paying her words attention now. He nodded to the tiny circle embedded on her hand, at the base of her thumb. “Is that a tattoo?”

“This?” Julianna dusted her hand over the other, as if trying to smudge it, or maybe remembering its existence.

“Yeah. I’ve never noticed it before.”

“I’ve had it for a while… Like my contacts. It’s not that noticeable and it’s lame, I know, but my younger brother and I wanted to get a tattoo together, so we got these. Doesn’t mean anything, though. It’s just a circle.”

The warmth in the mug he was holding became apparent, it was overpowering the faint pit of warmth in his chest.

“I think that’s sweet,” he said. 

They all talked for the rest of the night, right until the sun came up. He also learned that Julianna and Sam had recently became an item—she was no longer with the drink-bearer from before. He’d never thought of them together, he had barely known them until now, but now that it was presented to him, it was also very sweet.

Julianna phoned another taxi for his ride home. He would’ve phoned up his driver, but he couldn’t think of his number. When the car arrived, it was 8am. They both wished him the best of luck, and Julianna stuffed a fifty and her phone number on a scrap piece of paper into his pocket, with her address on the back, telling him to call if he ever needed to. Or even drop by.

She pulled the front door open and set her hand on the small of Elton’s back, not to shoo him out, being gentle.

“I’m having a party next month,” she said, and the thought of another party curdled the contents of his stomach, but then she continued: “If you want to come. It’s my birthday. If you’re busy, I totally understand, but I just thought you might—”

Elton nodded his response. “Don’t invite John.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

+

The driver kept looking in the rearview mirror, but wasn’t saying anything. Perhaps he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, was trying to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

Elton John slumped in the back of his cab, half-drunk, face stained waxy and shiny from crying. He wanted to assure him the scenario was strange, even to him, but opted against it.

As the taxi pulled out of the street, The Supremes’ ‘You Can’t Hurry Love’ jingled through the radio. Elton’s mouth formed a straight line as he tried and failed to stop himself from crying again. He didn’t care if the man was watching.

Closer to his own house, ‘I Can See For Miles’ by The Who played and his feelings switched. He stared straight ahead at the back of the driver’s seat as he thought. This was the last time he was going to take any of John’s shit. What just happened, everything that happened, that was it. He couldn’t let this slide and try to carry on as normal. This was it. He planned to give him hell when he came in the door. _If_ he came in the door. This was it.

His attention drifted to the green feathers dangling from the rearview mirror, then his house behind them in the distance. He told the driver to drop him off here. He could walk the rest. He handed him the fifty that Julianna had leant to him, urged him to keep the change if there was any.

+

John never did show up. Not that day, or the following three.

Elton was able to bag himself a shed-load of cocaine and use it as freely as he liked without the addition of passremarks. But the house was cold. He rarely left his room, and lay, for the most part, in a haze on his bed. Didn’t eat, barely slept. Crawled past the window. The usual routine being there cast upon him. It made him miss John, and he hated that it did. He hated himself for it. Hated that he could never stick to what he planned on doing at the start. He even wrote a pathetic poem that consisted of the lines: ‘What’ve I gotta do to make you love me? What’ve I gotta do to make you care?’ among a multitude of other poems, all equally as contemptible.

He wanted to phone him, but didn’t know where to call. He was probably with someone else. _No,_ his inner voice wailed with anguish. _He **was** with someone_—

But the thought that John was gone, he was really on his own, was haunting. Terrifying. It didn’t seem finite yet. They’d fought so many times, and it had never ended everything. He didn’t know if he could end everything. He didn’t know if he could. Maybe he had over-dramatised things.

He still loved him. Well, he was not entirely sure he knew what that meant anymore. He still felt the same feelings for him was probably a better way to put it.

He thought of calling Bernie. He knew where he was. But couldn’t do that either.

The phone rang. The clock said that it was seven o’clock precisely. He wasn’t sure if it was AM or PM. Frantically, he sat up and lifted the receiver. Cleared his throat.

“Hello?”

“Elton.”

A touch of relief sank his shoulders, but he came back steely. “What do you want?”

“Wanted to see how you’re keeping.”

“Don’t pretend you care, John.”

“I’m not. I’m not pretending.” There was a long pause, then a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

That wasn’t a phrase he said often. Quietly or not.

“What are you sorry for?”

He at least wanted to test him first, see if he knew or could admit what he was apologising for.

“For doing what I did that night… I’m sorry that it ended up that way. Sweetheart, I know that that alone can’t fix anything, but just know I… I wasn’t thinking. My intention wasn’t… it wasn’t to hurt you, Elton. You’re the only one I really want to be with. We’ve all been tempted to stray at one point or another… it doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“What about all the stuff you said?” Elton swallowed past the tightness in his throat, mentally cursing himself for being so pathetic. “Before.”

“I didn’t mean all that. You know I didn’t. I was…”

He trailed off.

. . .

“Are you gonna come back?” Elton asked.

“Yes. Yes, darling, of course. I didn’t know if you wanted me to come back.”

Elton gripped the receiver tighter. “I do.”

_Please. Please, God._

“Okay. I’ll come tomorrow. It’s late now.”

Elton looked back at the clock. PM. He wanted to ask him why not tonight, why not now, but didn’t want to run the risk of him changing his mind.

“I’ll do something nice for you,” Elton said. “Tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. And we can talk. Properly. Fix it.”

It sounded insane, hearing himself saying it out loud. Pathetic.

“That’s no problem,” John said.

“I’ll make us dinner.”

John laughed. “ _You’re_ gonna make it?”

And for a moment, everything felt normal. Felt like it did years ago, in the beginning. Thoughts took shape in front of his eyes, radiant images that inevitably disintegrated, returning him to the bleak hovel he was sat in.

Elton gave a laugh of his own, despite crying a little. “Yes.”

“Okay, well… I’m intrigued. I’ll be there.”

Elton nodded, then realised he couldn’t see him. “Okay…”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

Elton straightened as if shocked, mind working overtime to come up with something to keep him on the line. “Would you… would you go to counselling?”

“What?”

“I was just thinking. Like, both of us.”

“We aren’t a heterosexual married couple, Elton.”

“I know that, but I’m sure someone would be open to it.”

“I’m not open to it.”

“Why?”

“That’s silly, darling, we don’t need to do that. We can fix it ourselves.”

“Okay. Do you promise you’ll come?”

“To your dinner?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Yes! Promise.”

“Do you love me?”

“What do you think?”

“Come at…” Elton twirled the phone’s cord around his finger, “seven.”

“What was that?”

“Seven. Come here at seven.”

“Right.”

“Okay. Um. Goodnight?”

“Are you wearing the ring?”

Elton held out his hand and looked at it. “Hm?”

“Are you wearing the ring?”

He curled his hand weakly. “Mm-hm.”

“Don’t forget it. Okay?”

“Say you love me.”

“What, why, darling? Sure, you know I do.”

“Can you just say… you love me?”

“I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Elton pointlessly nodded again. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Elton didn’t sleep.

+

Elton looked into the sad pot of spaghetti he was non-stop stirring, strands of it sticking to the pot’s walls.

“I thought this was meant to be easy.”

Dot had promised him exactly that. He’d sat and lamented to her, leaving out certain details, and told her he wanted to cook something for him, and she was more than keen to help.

He referred back to the list she had laid out for him, in the most layman terms.

_Boil the pasta in a pot of salted water. It should take about 10 mins, but keep checking it just to be sure. You can’t fully rely on packaging._

“I did that.” Elton tapped the wooden spoon on the side of the pot. “I fucking did that, and it still turned out shit.”

Dot had promised him it was a ‘simple enough’ meal, and she’d done the hardest parts herself: prepared the meatballs and sauce, they were both being preserved at a low heat. There shouldn’t be much issue with those. The only thing she left Elton to do was cook the pasta, which he somehow managed to overcook. Fuck it. It’d have to do. John would have to appreciate the effort and sentiment.

He looked to the clock on the wall. 6:50pm.

“Right.”

He took the meatballs from their tray in the oven and hucked them into the sauce next to his abomination on the hob. He mixed it for a few moments then dolloped it on top of the pasta. He referred back to the list to make sure he hadn’t done something immensely stupid.

_Put the sauce & meatballs together, then put them in with the pasta and stir. Season it. Put a little of the bay leaf in. Let it simmer (just below boiling, it’ll be bubbling still) and, God willing, the sauce should thicken a bit. Let it do this for another 8-10 mins, and it should be done! Serve it up, sprinkle with a little bit of Parmesan, and enjoy! _

“God help this pasta.”

It was going to be even more overcooked by the end of it. But perhaps if he doused him with enough red wine, his favourite of wines, maybe he wouldn’t notice.

When it hit 7, he distributed it between two deep plates she told him pasta was designated for, and followed the rest of the instructions. He took a step back to assess everything. The array of candles he’d set out along the worktop and arranged ever so carefully on the table looked nice, not lit yet. The spaghetti seemed fine, edible, though a good deal of it had stuck to the bottom of the pot. But that was okay, because he had severely misjudged how much pasta to use in the first place. Everything had aligned perfectly.

He set the plates on the table. Looked back at the time.

Four minutes past seven.

He’d be here soon. Any minute.

Elton rectified his appearance in the vaguely distorting sheen of the oven door. He swept the condensation from his face with the backs of his hands, tidied his hair up a little. The finger-marked discolouration on his neck and parts of his face were still apparent, but he pulled his attention away. He wiped his hands on Dot’s apron he was wearing. Now was a good time to light the candles. He struck a match and lended the fire to each of them, then his focus went back to the clock.

Seven minutes past seven.

Any minute.

More time passed as he watched the candles’ flames waver, unable to deny anymore that he was about to do the same.

Fourteen minutes past eight.

He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of ringing him, pleading with him. Fuck him.

After a burst of rage, he sank into suffocating depression.

“Well, you tried,” he whispered, going along each of the candles one by one to gently blow them out. “That’s all you could do… Let’s not burn the house down, Elton.”

He ate his own dinner after reheating it for a minute in the microwave. It was lukewarm and terrible. He waited for another half hour, then sat himself on the floor and angrily ate John’s cold. He would have preferred to have sat below the table, but couldn’t have been bothered to pull enough of the chairs out to fit. He imagined the presence of a pit in the middle of the floor to creep into and eat, hide himself even from the walls, but since that wasn’t available, he settled for the pity of the floor.

After, he rose enough to crawl to the edge of the worktop to take to the pot of hardening pasta stuck to the rim with sauce and staleness, and returned to his now heated spot on the tile to scrape off and eat as much of that as he could stomach.

“What’re you doing?”

He cheeked the rotten pasta in his mouth. He knitted his eyebrows in confusion, shame, shock.

“Bernie, what’re you doing here?” He wiped his mouth, sure there had to be sauce painting the edges. He swallowed what was inside and set the pot next to him. “How’d you get in?”

“I know the code…” Bernie said. “I have a key.” He looked around and his own brow creased with something of the same. The shame, secondhand.

“Why’d you never use that before?” Elton asked.

“I felt like I’d be intruding…”

_What made this time any different?_

Bernie seemed to recognise the error of his words.

“I don’t know, I know it’s late,” he said. “I just wanted to come by.”

“You should’ve at least buzzed.”

“Sorry.”

There was silence. Elton lifted the pot back into his lap.

“Wanna sit down?”

“Not really,” Bernie said. “What’re you doing eating on the floor?”

“Well.” Elton dug the fork back into the congealing spaghetti, raising his elbow to give it the apt amount of effort needed to scratch it from the metal. “I made dinner.” He put the food in his mouth and chewed, grimacing at the ever-depleting unpleasant texture.

“You made it?”

“Yes, it’s very funny, isn’t it?”

“No! No, it’s just… Okay, it is. A bit.”

“I made it. For John and I.”

Bernie glanced at the sauce-coated plates and dead candles still on the table. “He didn’t come.”

“No,” Elton confirmed, and slipped another forkful into his mouth. “He didn’t, so I ended up eating both of them.”

“Was it good?”

“Not really. And if the fact I’ve been sitting here eating the unfortunate bits that got stuck to the pan for at least the last ten minutes is anything to go by…” He shrugged, then stuck his fork back into the unmanageable weed-like tangle. “Pathetic. And, look. There’s enough still stuck here for a whole plate. I fucked it.”

Bernie lent a look of sympathy, then walked over, clunking himself to the floor next to him, peering into the pot.

“It looks like it turned out okay. In its heyday, maybe. The parts that made it to the plate were probably fine.”

Elton smiled at him. “You think?”

Bernie nodded quickly. “Wouldn’t want to try it now, though.”

“Yeah, it’s not great.”

Bernie gave him a gentle nudge on the arm. “Quit eating it, then!”

Elton supposed he’d tortured himself enough. He set it to the side for good.

“Mind if we move things to the sofa? It’s not very comfortable down here.”

“I’ve been sitting like this for an hour,” Elton said, as if that was something to gloat about. He clambered to his feet, joints creaking. “Yeah, come on.”

They moved into the vast living room, and Elton shed the apron off, deciding to make use of the night. He suggested they drink the wine and listen to some records. Bernie was up for it. Elton scurried to his record room downstairs, pulled out a few records and brought them up, rifling through and landing on The Isley Brothers’ ‘Givin’ It Back.’ He stuck it on the record player on the shelf and they made themselves cosy on the sofa, unnecessarily, but—for Elton, at least—comfortably jammed together, with a full glass of wine each.

“Why’d John not show?”

“I don’t know.” Elton halted pinching at the bare skin of his leg to take a drink. “Well, we kind of… fought the other day. What’s new, hm? He hasn’t been here for a while, but he called me, we talked on the phone a bit, you know… and I told him I’d make us dinner.”

Bernie gave a listening nod.

“I wanted to— And he thought it was funny, like you did, but… he just didn’t show up. I wanted to do something nice. And he’s still not here, so what does that tell you?”

Bernie looked sorry.

“It was stupid to begin with,” Elton scoffed. “He probably thinks I’m such an idiot. In fact, I know he does.”

“I don’t think it was stupid… Hold on, what’s this?”

Elton looked up from his hands, hard knot in his stomach tightening when he saw Bernie holding his open journal in his. His brain raced hard, trying to remember the page he’d left it at.

“Oh, uh, I don’t know.”

“Is this a song?” Bernie sipped again tentatively, taking a moment to trail his eyes from the paper. They met his with a deep intrigue, excitement. “Did you try to write a song?”

Elton didn’t mean to snatch the book off him, but he did.

“No. _Try_ would be the correct word for it, thank you for keeping me humble, but don’t be silly…” He patted the book’s back cover with a self-conscious grin. “It’s just my… my silly ramblings. Maybe an attempted poem, at most. Wait, which one is that?”

“Which _one?_ There’s a couple? Reg! That is so cool. Can I take a look at the rest afterwards?”

“Sure. Let me see which one you’re looking at first. Oh, dear God. That one’s terrible. Atrocious. I don’t know what I was thinking…”

“No, I like it.”

“My tender-hearted love, look me in the eye. My tender-hearted love, please look me in the eye… Are you joking?”

“Come on, that’s nice.”

“The title is ‘My Tender-Hearted Love’ in case you couldn’t tell. That’s not giving you some sort of Bluesology fever dream?”

Bernie snorted. “Okay, maybe a little. That one _can’t_ be about John. Tender-hearted, my ass.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s not about anybody, in fact, I can barely remember writing it. It’s stupid.”

“Let me see the other one.”

“Here.” Elton held the book up, pinned open at the only other page that was readable. “This one _is_ about him. If you couldn’t tell.”

“Hey now, hold on. I like this,” Bernie enthused.

“Fuck off.”

“I do. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Well, that’s clearly debatable. You’re just after fawning over my last monstrosity.”

“I think this is really nice. I do.”

“Thanks… I suppose. I was just fucking around, it’s not serious.”

Bernie took the book back delicately, eyes scanning over. “It’s a bit… sad.” He laughed a little, looked at him. “But I think it’s got potential to be a song. Would you mind if I tried to do something with it?”

“If you think you can.”

“I do. I know it.”

Bernie gave it another glance over then thankfully nestled the book back where he’d discovered it, on the table.

“Do you and Juniper ever fight?”

He asked it, knowing the answer. Perhaps wanting him to reinforce that there was still hope for what he and John had.

“Of course we do,” Bernie said, and Elton sensed a little bit of apprehension in his demeanor, so he left it at that.

They finished their glasses and poured more.

“John hit me.”

“What?”

“The other day, his birthday. Hit me.” His hands ghosted around his neck. “Grabbed me…”

“Is that what those marks are?”

A nod, swallowing alcohol.

“I knew it,” Bernie swore in a cursing whisper. “Fucking knew it. He had you by your neck?”

Another nod.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?”

“I didn’t wanna go to his birthday thing, so he… went mental.”

“He’s such a piece of shit.”

“And that last time, the…” He patted around his face, where the mask of bruises from the shutters once lay. “He did that, too.”

“Well, I knew that. Didn’t know what exactly he’d done to you, but I knew he was to blame.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“Don’t be, I get it. Unfortunately, I get it. I know why you didn’t admit it, I understand why you— I should have said something. To him, as well as to you. I just… Juniper and I fight sometimes, but it doesn’t get… it’s not ever physical.”

“Why’d you never tell me about that? About you guys fighting sometimes?”

Bernie traced his finger on the rim of his glass. “Because…”

“I thought we could tell each other anything. I thought we were supposed to.”

Bernie shrugged. “I don’t know… I suppose, like I said, I thought the things you were dealing with were heavier, needed more attention. And clearly, I was right.”

They drank a few glasses each, saying nothing. Like always, it was never awkward. Dizziness set in, and walls lowered further.

“He cheated on me, Bernie.”

Bernie swallowed the wine in his mouth like he’d been tricked into sipping at poison. “Again?”

“At his party,” Elton said. “He was kissing some guy. Hands down each other’s drawers and everything.”

“Fuck. Was this the fight you had?”

“He hit me first, that was— He hurt me, and then I gave in and went to the party… He did _that_ , and we fought, and… ”

Bernie’s face turned sour. “And you did all that for him, trying to win him back?”

Another nod.

“Elton, it’s not on you to be trying to fix that. He fucked up, not you. That’s not your responsibility, it should be him trying to fix things if he wants it to work. And as much as I know you don’t wanna hear it, I don’t think he does. No, I’m certain. He doesn’t _care,_ Elton.”

“I know that, but… but I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to fix it, it’s not your place. You shouldn’t even be wanting to fix it either. Fuck him, man, he’s such a piece of shit. You’re too good for him.”

“That’s not true.”

“Do you wanna bet?”

“He won’t try.” Elton attempted to make sense of what he felt, instead. “So, if I’m not the one to do it, then it won’t happen. That’s why, Bernie. Everything falls to shit if I don’t do it, so I have to make it my place.”

Bernie shook his head. “Then let it fall to shit.”

“I can’t, I’ll have nothing. I can’t bear the thought of that, I can’t. It’s— I’m just the kind of person who always… I just need someone.”

“Not someone who hurts you. Who has been, for years. You don’t need someone like him.”

The record crackled to the next track. ‘Love the One You’re With.’

“I can’t _do_ being on my own,” Elton said. “Not now. I wouldn’t know how.”

Bernie downed what was in his glass, then set it down. He looked at him with a charged flare, sure electricity, a mix of God knew what. Elton glanced away. He looked back again when Bernie took hold of his hand. His eyes were slightly glassy, but were trying to communicate. Something else. His face was drawing closer to his at an almost unnoticeable pace. Elton found himself doing the same. The look on Bernie’s face was not one Elton was familiar with. And it wasn’t tellable whether it was the alcohol controlling him, drawing him, or something else. The fact that he didn’t laugh, or say anything, must have meant the moment was tender to him as well, and therefore fragile.

Elton didn’t want to feel it break.

He carefully moved in closer, watching Bernie close his eyes. They were really going to do this.

But why?

He closed his eyes after studying Bernie’s closed ones for a second longer, then pressed his lips to his, gently, still a little unsure. They kissed like that, like five year olds sharing their very first, for one, two, three, then four whole seconds before Bernie pulled back. The butterflies in Elton’s stomach were frantic. Bernie smiled at him and Elton returned it, but he couldn’t make sense of any of this. Then Bernie kissed him again, firmer this time, tongue slipping in, and Elton gasped softly, a physical expulsion from the wave of emotions that took him over, while Bernie caressed the back of his hand. It was like floating and falling all at once, dreaming. Elton gripped his hand tighter, but not hard, taking hold of the other one, heart surging like the butterflies in his stomach had pushed it forward, leaning him further into the kiss. He stroked his thumb across Bernie’s, and they kissed slowly, sweetly. Bernie smiled again. He could feel it, and the soft sweep of air he exhaled. Elton resisted the urge he had to open his eyes, to look at him. To make sure this was real. But he couldn’t risk it ending. He inhaled his sweet smell and smiled too, and they kissed for the entirety of the song. Which Elton knew lasted almost four minutes.

Four minutes of kissing Bernie.

When the song carried into the next, they continued for three seconds before unanimously stopping, passing smiles and breaths of laughter back and forth, glancing away. The butterflies were alight, burning. His entire body tingled with their embers.

Bernie shifted first, and they manoeuvered together, Bernie falling into the crevice between the back of the sofa and Elton’s side. He nuzzled close and shut his eyes. Elton didn’t want to move—blink and you disrupt a dream. He shut his eyes carefully and let a stream of air pass his lips like a brook, relaxed his body against his. He wanted to savour this, save thoughts for later. Save all thoughts for later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted in this were:  
> Sorry Seems To Be the Hardest Word by Elton John  
> I do not own it.  
> My Tender-Hearted Love, which is not a real song at all, because it was made up by me!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	14. Just Raised On My Back Legs and Snarled

+

What happened last night became an almost continuous thought. He and Bernie had kissed. And it wasn’t like the ones they casually pinned on each other in sweet moments: kisses on cheeks when bidding the other farewell or good luck. It was completely different. Maybe it shouldn’t have happened, but Elton was selfishly glad that it had.

“Have you seen this?” Elton brandished the newspaper towards Bernie.

It was from a couple of days ago, but he’d discovered it just moments before, conspicuously sitting next to the fridge. Maybe Dot had left it there.

_Elton Squabbles Outside London Nightclub With Manager!_

“It’s not the main title…” Elton pointed out the small section it took up in the corner of the front page. “But it’s still there, screaming at me.”

“Don’t pay it any attention.”

“I’ve already read it.”

Bernie looked disgruntled behind his mug of coffee. _Of course you did._

“Many times, Bernie,” Elton said, opening to the page with the story. He scanned to a random line. “According to eyewitnesses, Elton John caused a _scene_ last night, outside of a reportedly _obscene_ club in London…”

“Obscene club.”

Elton held up a finger. “Of which he’s also an avid frequenter.”

“Sources say…”

 _“Some_ sources say,” Elton confirmed, “that the spat was regarding a secret, turbulent, _homosexual_ affair the pair allegedly partake in.”

“Why do they have to word it like that?”

“Because it’s obscene, didn’t you hear? The very idea’s ludicrous still. _Being_ a _homosexual_ was only made legal about eight years ago, you know.”

Bernie drank his coffee, breath resounding noisily off the liquid.

Elton slapped the newspaper to the table. “Wonder which one of the bastards ratted that one out.”

“Probably John himself.”

“Probably. And I’m probably never gonna hear the end of it.”

They hadn’t talked about it, what happened the night before. Elton wondered if Bernie even remembered. Not because of being drunk—they’d only had a couple of glasses of wine each, and that wouldn’t have been enough to make either of them black out. When he opened his eyes and found Bernie still sandwiched next to him on the sofa, everything had flooded back to him. It was a blur, fast-moving, but fully recallable. If Bernie didn’t remember, it would be because he didn’t want to.

“Do you fancy coming to Quicksand with me on Friday night?” Elton asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Already heading back again so soon?”

“You know Julianna, don’t you? Tiny girl, short hair…”

“Yeah, I know her. Couldn’t tell you the last time I laid eyes on her, though.”

“Well, now you’ve got a chance to.” He tapped the newspaper. “She invited me out the day of that. It’s for her birthday, thought I’d go.”

“Yeah, I’ll come, why not?”

+

John showed up later that evening.

Elton set the dainty bouquet of white apology tulips onto the table, then tactfully blocked the V-shaped space he’d cracked the door open with again.

“Where were you all this time?” Being high, his own words were muffled as if by wads of cotton wool bunched in his ears.

“Sorry about last night, darling,” John purred at him, ignoring the question asked as he wedged a foot inside, pressing his full body to his. He clamped an arm around Elton’s waist, hot breath against his neck, as he kissed in between words. “I hope you can forgive me… I forgot I’d made other plans, I’m really sorry.”

Plans more important than theirs?

“ _I’ll_ make us dinner tomorrow night, how about that? I’ll do one of your favourites. Curry or something. Would you like that?”

John smelled of cigarettes, masked by a light cologne. Elton wasn’t sure if he was also smelling old alcohol on John’s mouth or his own. His body remained frigid. He looked back again at the stupid flowers.

“Hm?” John’s cold hand redirected his gaze back to him, taking hold of his cheek. His other snuck up his shirt, manhandling. He kissed his lips this time. Alcohol was most definitely tracing his breath. The pleasant aroma of scotch. “Can you forgive me?”

Elton, looking him dead in the eye, pushed a space between their bodies that John fought against.

“For what? Not coming over for the dinner I made? Or for cheating on me?”

John let their bodies part.

“Come off it,” he said, then his eyes searched his flatly. “Are you serious?”

“Dunno. Are you _not_ serious?” Elton whipped his finger back and forth in the space between them. “About me and you? What about you contacting the fucking press about what happened that night? What was that about?”

“You really think I did that? Why would I, the one person who actually tells you not to act up so people won’t write about it, contact the paper myself? And put myself in it, too? You are completely out of your mind.”

Elton backed further into the house, and his hand bumped into something cold. The flowers. He traced his finger along the ribbon that bound their stems together.

“Fine. But you cheated on me, John. Again.”

John stepped further inside, then spoke quietly, slowly, as if that was the only way Elton could understand. “I told you, it wasn’t serious. I don’t know what more you need.”

“Commitment, maybe?”

“It didn’t _mean_ anything.”

“Right, maybe not to you. But you’d be fucking pissed at me if I did that. Pissed. You’d go right through me. And I don’t want to play double standards. Not anymore. What applies to me needs to apply to you, so if you’re going to—”

John coughed air from the back of his throat, pushed his oily hair back from his face.

“I put up with it before,” Elton spat, “and I’m not doing it again. So, let me ask you one more time. Are _you_ serious? How are we gonna fix this?”

John said nothing, eyes slitting. Elton promised himself he would not beg, not cry. _God, do_ **_not_** _cry_. He was above that. He was. He was past it. Over it.

“Do you even want to?” Elton asked. “Are you even sorry… for any of it?”

“Do you want to know where I was?” John then asked, referring back to the question he’d withheld from answering in the beginning. Saving it for this moment was purposeful, gave him some kind of leverage that left Elton stock-still, disbelieving. His eyes stung from not blinking. Maybe—he hoped—he looked unshakeable.

“I was fucking him,” John said, prowling closer. “That— yeah, you know the one. I was fucking him. Hard. And there was someone else after that, and someone else after that.”

Elton exhaled a hollow laugh, willing, forcing himself not to cry. “And you’re gloating about that?”

“No, just letting you know that while you were here, crying yourself to sleep on your own every night, begging me to go to counselling with you—which, by the way, is pathetic—I was fucking someone else.”

Elton thought he heard movement upstairs, possibly that of the trudge of feet. He glanced to the stairs, reassuring himself that Bernie wasn’t on his way down. He wasn’t.

“You don’t feel the slightest bit bad about it?” Elton asked softly.

“Multiple people, each night,” John went on. “Each brilliant fucking night, that I didn’t have to spend looking at you.”

“Please. As if tonnes of people are queuing up to sleep with you.”

“More than’d line up for you. Last one was about an hour ago.”

“And there was me thinking that was your aftershave,” Elton said.

“Do you _know_ how many men I’ve had in _your_ bed? If you want to pull your knickers down now, I can maybe fit in a quick one.”

“Fuck off.”

“Not interested?”

“No, I’m not, strangely enough. And if you’re that caught for time, feel free to arrange someone else to come and get your stuff for you in the morning. But you’re leaving, now.”

“Or what? Where am I gonna go?”

“Who gives a shit? I sure don’t.”

John looked at him appraisingly. “You are such a cow.”

“Two seconds ago, you were going on about how great it was to not be here, so go to one of your many shags’ houses, they’ll have you. Go wherever you were. Or stick a tent up in the street, for all this cow cares. You won’t have to look at me there. Do whatever you want, you’re not living here anymore and I don’t want anything more to do with you.”

John stepped back out the door. “Right. Until next time, when you—”

“No. No next time. This is it, we’re done, I don’t want to see you. Not now, not tomorrow. Not ever. It’s done.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Well, we’ll see about that.”

“We will indeed. You are nothing without me, you know that. I’ll be fine without you.”

Elton lifted the flowers and whipped them against his chest, a tulip head and a few petals flaking off onto the floor. “Eat shit, John, get out.”

“I’m your manager.”

“So what? For now you are.”

“You can’t just get out of a contract, Reg. Doesn’t work like that.”

Elton held back on hitting him with the flowers again, guessing he was likely lucky to have gotten away with it the first time. He twisted the bundle of stems in opposite directions. “I don’t give a shit about contracts right now. Be my manager all you like, but you are not living here.”

John simply shrugged.

“Leave. Leave, right now, or I’ll… I’ll call the police.”

“Right, but don’t even think about coming running to me. We both know you will sooner or later, but I’m telling you now, don’t do it. I’m not gonna be there. This was your last chance.”

“ _My_ last chance?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, Reg. Any bath towels down there?”

Elton’s stomach sank, and his heart leapt into his mouth.

A spark of _something_ played across John’s face. “Ah,” he said. “Bernie’s with you.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Am I disturbing something?”

“Reg?” Bernie’s voice echoed from the landing now.

Elton cleared his throat, eyes staying on John. “Yes?”

“Any bath towels? I can’t see any.”

“Uh, think Dot put some in the airing cupboard earlier, try there.”

“Sure thing. Ah, yes, here they are. Thank you.”

“No worries…”

“Maybe you weren’t on your own after all, then,” John said shortly. “Maybe that’s why you don’t want me in.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know rightly. You know exac—”

“Eat shit.” Elton threw the flowers to the floor, and at the same time, slammed the door shut. He pressed his forehead to the wood. “And don’t even think about using your key to get in here. Or so help me. I swear. So fucking help me.” He scrambled to draw the security chain across, then heard shoes on pavement, and then a car door opening. He waited. And waited.

The car drove off.

+

Even though Quicksand was beginning to leave a sour taste in his mouth, he’d go. Because the root of the bad associations was not invited, therefore couldn’t spread his rot. And not only that, there would be more than enough alcohol around to wash away any bad tastes, should they sift through.

Bernie brought Juniper along. First bad taste. He didn’t say he was going to bring her. It was obviously his way of trying to move past, gloss over, what happened. A way to say: ‘No, it was a mistake, we’re just friends’ without really saying it. Elton got the message loud and clear.

They hung around outside for a bit, by the shutters of the building right next to Quicksand. Not the ones around the corner.

“What are we waiting out here for?” Juniper looked at her dainty watch, bare shoulders bunched around her ears. “Are we waiting for John? Can’t we meet him inside? It’s freezing.”

Bernie put an arm around her, draping her in his coat.

“We’d have a long wait, Juniper,” Elton said, “for Johnny ain’t coming!”

“Why not?”

“He wasn’t invited.”

“Well, couldn’t you have brought him as a guest? The way Bernie brought me?”

Elton grinned. “No.”

Juniper looked up at Bernie, unimpressed. “Oh, that’s a shame. Why’s he not invited?”

“It’s a John-free zone for me tonight. And, hopefully, every other night from now on.”

“Right, well, where’s Julianna, then? I want to meet her.”

“Oh, she’ll be about somewhere.” Elton bobbed on the balls of his feet, already feeling aptly intoxicated. He tipped his head to the traffic of people closer to the door. “Probably mingling there, with that lot.”

“What’s that say?”

Elton followed Juniper’s finger, and twisted out of its way to see what she was pointing at.

Carved there, crudely but perfectly telligible, on one of the shutters’ ridges:

_ELTON’S_

_A_

_QUEER_

It hit him with a teenage dread. Like when the kid he’d fancied in high school had snatched his journal from him and read pages of it aloud, and the focus of his teasing was switched from his gawky glasses and clothes to being gay, to fancying Rudy. Which lead to similar and sometimes worse things being scrawled on high school bathroom stalls. And different kinds of tokens on his face.

The etching was small, but that didn’t make it any less cutting.

“Look at that.” He half-smiled at her. “Says I’m a queer. Isn’t that simply darling?” Then at Bernie, whose own face was deeply twisted. Elton ushered them both inside. “Let’s find Julianna, then. Come on, let’s go and see her.”

They went straight to lounge three, and stood in a triangle inside. The music playing wasn’t Quicksand’s usual. It was a live act—three girls in translucent gowns, singing dreamily soft. Some original songs, some not. They were currently giving a spine-chilling rendition of Linda Ronstadt’s ‘Someone To Lay Down Beside Me,’ the three of them swaying like ghostly daisies. Juniper had her arm around Bernie’s shoulders, reaching up and giggling as she pushed hair she wished was there from his ear to schmooze into it. Bernie reciprocated, doing the same back to her. Yet there seemed to be something, on Bernie’s end—a tension, perhaps. Holding back. The way you act strangely when you know someone is watching.

“Do you want a drink, Bern? I do.”

Elton had to turn his face to hide his blatant and unstoppable grimace, and redirect his mouthed ‘Ugh.’

“Are you okay?”

Elton looked back at Bernie, trying to figure out what to say.

“Yeah,” he eventually said, eyes ticking to the people dancing over Bernie’s shoulders. He wondered where Julianna was. Once Juniper and Bernie inevitably broke away, he’d be left drifting around on his own.

“Juniper and I, we’re gonna go and get a drink, do you want anything?”

“Not yet, thank you. I’m gonna find Julianna.” Elton indicated to the pocket his present for her was stuffed into. “You know, it’s her birthday. Actually want to see her.”

Bernie nodded at that, his eyes staying stagnant on his a moment too long before he headed off with Juniper towards the bar.

Elton stayed there for a while, watching them until they became part of the rest of the scene and he lost track of them. He looked around, tried to spy Julianna. Or Sam. Anyone else he knew.

After a while of failed and barely-attempted sleuthing, he moved to loiter at the bar himself, where he noticed Bernie and Juniper on the dancefloor. Watching him with her was making his blood boil. He doused his green-eyed passive aggressiveness with a margarita, and even though John had total disregard for him, and was a horrible person, he couldn’t help thinking of him. Longing for him, in a way. After another drink, he came back to the conclusion that if he didn’t care, he shouldn’t either. He looked back at Bernie and Juniper, whose dancing had stopped, replaced now with a different kind of exchange. Tense bodies, tense faces. Elton smirked. None of his business, he thought, but then they ambled towards him.

“Have you found Julianna yet?” Bernie asked.

“Do you see her next to me? No. Haven’t been looking.”

“Alright. What’re you drinking?”

Elton glanced at his few empties. He opened his mouth, then only shrugged.

The distinct smell of sandalwood overtook his train of thought. He turned, finding a handsome fellow settling next to him, ordering a drink. Clean shaven, save for a neat moustache. Literally, a breath of fresh air. He didn’t want to let the opportunity pass.

He turned back to Bernie and Juniper. “Excuse me, will you?”

He didn’t give either of them time to answer before he drew away again, and slid closer to the stranger. 

“Hi, I’m Elton.”

“Yeah, I know.” The guy wiped his drink from his moustache. “Eric.”

“Charmed. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ve ordered one, love.”

“Well, it is a party, isn’t it? Another won’t kill you.”

Eric agreed, and accepted his second Pernod cocktail.

“So, how do you know Julianna?” Elton asked. “Is that what you’re here for, her birthday?”

“Yes, I used to work with her until… she went off to work somewhere else, the bitch.”

The way the word ‘bitch’ left his tongue wasn’t companionable in nature at all.

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. Used to screw her brother, too. Nothing serious, thankfully. A fucking stark-raving nightmare, him.”

“Haven’t had his pleasure yet, I don’t think.”

“Well, you’re lucky. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Guess I am, then… Wh—”

“John isn’t even here, we’re going to be stuck with Elton all bloody night. If I’d’ve known that, I wouldn’t have shown up myself.”

It hit him like a ton of bricks, his back stiffened. He stared straight ahead at Eric who was gabbling on, but not an ounce of it was being heard.

“Keep your voice down, will you?” Bernie chided in a whisper. “You can’t talk about my friend like that. And he’ll hear you if you talk any louder.”

“I don’t care! I’ll talk as loud as I want to. He’ll hardly hear me over _her_ singing.”

“Well, what are you supposing we do?”

“I’m _supposing_ we leave. Come on, think. How can we get out of this?”

“No, no, we can’t. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t up and leave him.”

“Here we go again. He’s a grown bloody man, Bernie! I’m so tired of you mollycoddling him all the time, it’s so stupid. I wanna go home.”

“Well, you can go ahead.”

“Oh, that’s exactly what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

“No. Why’d you even come in the first place?”

“That’s your fault.”

“It is not, you had the choice to say no.”

“Well, I thought John would be here, but he isn’t.”

He knew Bernie was scowling as he said: “He’s like a brother to me, Juniper, that’s all it is.”

“Then what am I to you, then? You spend more time fussing over him than you do me.”

“How do I?”

“You just do, I’m sick of it. You’re not his keeper. He doesn’t have to come everywhere with us, and we shouldn’t have to go everywhere with him. There’s three in this relationship: you, me, and _him_. Mostly, you and him!”

“This is not the time or place for this. I care about both of you. And I told you all this I don’t know how many times—he’s not getting in the way of me and you. He won’t.”

“Oh, don’t act stupid. You _know_ what they’re like.”

He was frozen, but his jaw fell rustily, his stomach buckled.

“Excuse me?” Bernie squeaked.

“What? They’re all the same. You think I don’t see the way he looks at you? He’d have you if you turned your back for one second.”

“Don’t dare talk like that. You’re… disgusting.”

 _“I’m_ disgusting? For God’s sake. Well, what’re you gonna do?”

“What do you want me to do, Juniper? Just say: ‘Hey, see you later’ and let him get on with it on his own?”

“Yes!”

“I can’t. I never would’ve thought you’d be so heartless, you know. You’re a different person when it comes to him… He invited me here. And he’s always been there for me.”

“When has he ever been there for you?”

“You hardly know him. I’ve known him for years.”

“You’ve known me for years, too.”

“I know, but he _has_ been there for me, alright? I can’t do that to him. And he’s going through a rough time at the minute.”

“And we’re not? Eugh, I am so sick of hearing, ‘Oh, but Elton needs me, Elton this, Elton that.’ All you do is worry about him. He’s only _ever_ having a bad time, as far as I’m aware. He probably only tells you that because he wants you to himself. You have to choose.”

“You’re being so ridiculous.”

“No, you are! I’m tired of playing second best to a damn basket case like him!”

“Alright, I’ve had enough of this.”

“So’ve I!”

“No, come on, I’m taking you home.”

Elton looked back over his shoulder, expecting an excuse and a lie, but there they were: Bernie storming out into the hallways, and by the looks of things, headed to lounge one. Juniper was hopping around taking her heels off, then she shot out after him. Elton turned back to Eric, reality pooling in, and—ah, of course—he had also made a break for it. His eyes ticked around the many faces, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best. He probably would have scared him away anyway.

Some party this was turning out to be. This place had to be fucking cursed.

Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck every single one of them. _Let’s make this a night to forget._

A tall guy strutted through the sea of people and shouldered his way between him and the other bar fly next to him. He was wearing a little black dress, and his face was familiar. Elton couldn’t disguise the fact he was staring, trying to decipher who he was, or where he’d seen him before.

He gave a look his way, trailed up and down, then ordered a drink.

“Negroni, please.”

His foreign accent was heavy, but not telling at all. Could have been German. The bartender began to prepare the drink. When he strained the mix into a glass of ice, Elton moved one step closer.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“You have.” The guy gave him a spare glance, then lifted his drink. “You’re Elton John.”

“I am, but who’re you?”

He smiled and that was it.

“You look so damn familiar…” Elton curled a finger at his chin. “This is gonna piss me off.”

The guy sipped. “Keep going.”

“I’ve no idea…” Then, Elton’s body zapped with a spark of realisation. “Hold on. Were you the guy who didn’t say a word? John’s friends. Here, over a year ago. Big… feathers on you?”

“The night you were sick everywhere?” He leaned on the bar. “Yes.”

“You saw that?”

The guy gondala’d his glass back to centimetres from his lips. “No, but I heard about it.”

“Yeah, I was going to say, I didn’t see you around for very long. I started to think you were an apparition that night. A vision.”

“I’m sure you saw plenty of apparitions and visions that night.”

“I think I did,” Elton said, then squinted at him, wordlessly tried to get him to divulge his name.

“Warren,” he said, as if he was privy to that. He turned and held his thin hand out, waved his long fingers.

Elton took his hand. “Nice to meet you, I suppose.”

Warren gasped gently and retracted his hand. “You suppose?”

“Well, this is technically my first time meeting you, is it not?”

“I suppose.” Warren lent his hand back.

“Where’re you from?”

“Belgium.”

“Very nice. What brings you here, then?”

“What doesn’t bring you here?” Warren outwardly mused. “What brings _you_ here?”

“Being born here. What’re you doing _here_ though?” Elton elbowed the bar. “Tonight.”

Warren looked over his glass wickedly, as if debating whether or not to tell the truth. “My sister,” he said.

Elton’s thoughts spliced again. He moved his thumb down on Warren’s hand, exposing a little tattoo.

“You’re Julianna’s brother?”

Warren smiled at that, impressed. “You know what markings to look for.”

“ _You’re_ Julianna’s little brother.”

“She always tells people that,” Warren said. “We’re twins. She’s, like, five minutes older than me.”

“I don’t get it. How come you’re— How’re you from Belgium?”

Warren cackled a loud squawk and smacked his bare knee, breaking character.

“I’m having you on,” he confessed, Birmingham-thick.

Elton stared for a moment. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nah, I’m serious. Look at you, you really thought I was from Belgium.” Warren ha-ha’d again. “That’s so funny.”

“Yes, I fucking did, ‘cause you told me you were.” Elton hiccuped his own bit-back laugh. “I’m not gonna just start quizzing you, am I?”

“I would’ve.” Warren lifted one shoulder. “Shouldn’t be so unsuspicious.”

“Don’t worry, I am very suspicious.”

Warren clinked his straw against the ice cubes in his drink.

Elton subconsciously did the same. “I was talking to a character a few minutes ago, says he knows you.”

“That could be anyone, honey.”

“Eric something.”

“Oh, him.” Warren stuck his tongue out like he had smelled something horrid.

“Yeah, he said you and him had a bit of a dalliance.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly how he put it. He said you’d done a bit of, you know, agreeing on stuff.”

“He said that, did he?”

“Yeah, why, is that part of _his_ stand-up act?”

“No, it’s just nice to know he’s still running around boasting about it, is all. I think Julie invited him here thinking we’d be picking up where we left off.”

“And are you?”

“No! God, no! Not a chance, love, not worth my time. The only reason he has showed up is to try his luck with me, I bet. But he’s not getting jammy again tonight, or ever, for that matter. He’s got the lowest-rate chat I’ve ever had, and I mean that.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah! He’s dead boring. Did you not think so?”

Elton thought back. “Suppose so, now that you mention it. His mouth was moving, but I wasn’t really listening.”

“He tends to have that effect, love. God, you’d think he was bloody straight the chat you get from him. Like, come on, mate, spice it up a little. You know what I mean? Good thing you don’t have to have a conversation when fucking someone, am I right?”

“Right you are.”

Elton ordered two shots of tequila.

“With the lemon and salt?” Warren asked. “I thought that was only for blocking out the taste of shit tequila. I didn’t think these guys did too bad.”

“Well, I just thought, since it’s the custom thing…”

They each lifted a pinch of salt, and Warren sighed wistfully.

“You know what they say,” he said, “when in Rome.”

“Do as the Belgians do.” Elton looked at the tiny tattoo on his hand to reclarify. “I still can’t… So, you and her are twins?”

Warren licked the tattoo, and flecked the salt on top. “Yes.”

He did look a little like her. They both had fair hair, though his was dyed white-blonde. The same brilliant, blue eyes. That was it, really.

Elton salted his own hand. “And your name’s really Warren?”

“Yes, why would I lie about that?”

“You told me you were Belgian, why would you lie about that?”

“Fair,” Warren said. “Are we gonna do this?”

They counted to three, then licked up the salt and sank them back, following with the snap of lemon.

“I was just having fun,” Warren continued immediately. “For what it’s worth, I do it to everyone. I’m sure there’s plenty of people around the world who think I’m Warren from Belgium.”

Elton sloped against the bar. “So, I’m part of a special club.”

Warren’s eyelashes fluttered against his too-long fringe. “Suppose,” he said. “If that’s how you see it.”

“What takes you around the world, then? What do you do?”

Warren gracefully pivoted and passed a glance across the club. The older man, who he was with last time, was letting out a booming, guttural laugh in a conversation with three women.

“Him?” Elton asked.

Warren cracked a smile that was either a yes or another sign of him about to perform another part of his schtick.

Elton narrowed his eyes. “What’s his name?”

Warren laughed, resting his fingertips on his chest. “Are you still interrogating me?”

“Just asking his name. Trying to make conversation. That’s not interrogation, is it?”

“Andreas.”

“And where’s he from?”

“Belgium.”

“Okay. You’ve lost me. I can’t follow what’s a joke anymore.”

“He is,” Warren said, then ordered two more shots of a different tequila in a light blue bottle, without the salt and lemon. “That’s where I got my inspiration,” he said afterwards. “He’s a bodyguard, of sorts. But he’s useful for all sorts.”

Elton was unsure if what they were doing was flirting. Maybe pretending to.

“What do you need a bodyguard for?” he asked.

“A body like this?” Warren tilted his waist and ran a fluid hand down it. “You know it needs guarding. You know it makes people mad.”

Elton swallowed. “Well, the dress might, yeah.”

“That’s what I was referring to. Do you not think my body’s nice, too?”

“I didn’t say the dress was nice.”

“Wow, Elton John. You’re fucking rude.”

“Some people tend to say so.” The dancing lights glinting off the miniature crystals on Warren’s dress drew Elton’s focus away from his face. “This isn’t what you were wearing the last time I saw you. What’s it for?”

Warren pulled his eyebrows together. “Nothing, just wearing a dress.”

“You don’t have to look at me like that, I’m partial to a nice frock.”

“I suit black, don’t you think?”

Elton swished his fingers together as if referencing money, then pointed. “Can I?”

Warren nodded, and Elton felt the chiffon layer of the dress.

“Very nice.”

“You can get away with it in here,” Warren said. “People don’t really seem to care. But when you go out there, that’s another story. So I like to think you may as well do it when you’ve got the opportunity.”

“I like that. And it is a nice dress.” Elton pointed out the scattered specks of salt on the bar. “You haven’t got… anything that looks a bit like that, do you?”

Warren sank his drink, then shook his hair from his face. “Am I allowed to ask _you_ something?”

“Go on.”

“Where’s your man tonight?”

Elton took his shot. “He didn’t get an invite.”

Elton stayed transfixed on his glowy features, trying to read them. He was staring straight back, poker straight, until he cracked into a smile, clicking his finger to the salted bartop once.

“I do have stuff that looks a little like that. Follow me.”

They moved to one of the booths in the VIP area and brought an assemblance of drinks. Within seconds of snorting a line of coke each, Warren was all over him: kissing, heady hands travelling in ways that made a line of sweat prickle down his back.

“It’s your birthday, too,” Elton breathed, “that means.”

“It is.”

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“Well.” Warren kissed his jaw, and Elton made a deliberate effort to relax the muscles there. “You still have time to give me something.”

“Listen, I don’t usually… I don’t do hookups.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“No. I don’t, really, I—” Elton lifted his hand to show his ring. He was going to say he was in a relationship. For some reason. He registered his necklace. Then he recalled John wouldn’t be concerned in the same position. In fact, he hadn’t been. He and John were over. Fuck him. FUCK HIM.

“Trust me, honey,” Warren said, “you will. And I’m an experience you’ll never forget.”

“For some reason, I don’t doubt that for a second.”

Then he kissed him on the lips. Elton knew it was coming, but Warren lingered longer than anticipated. The flustered feeling from before dissolved instantaneously. One thing led to another, and they moved into a bathroom. The Hollies’ ‘Draggin’ My Heels’ misted through the door. And one thing led to another.

They slipped out of the bathroom afterwards, pleasantly dishevelled.

Elton pointed his chin at the bar. “Would you like a drink for your birthday, as well?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Warren wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then replumped his hair. “After that, though? I thought that was a fabulous gift. But alright, then.”

They returned to the bar.

After some time, Julianna poked her head between their shoulders. “Hello, you two!”

“Oh, there she is.” Elton turned. “Fucking finally. Happy birthday!”

“Thank you!”

“How is the birthday girl?”

Julianna was wearing knee-high white boots, a tiny black skirt, and brown turtleneck sweater. She was wearing her glasses this time. Elton pried his hands from where they were dangling at his sides, ready for the obligatory hug. Julianna planted a kiss on his cheek.

“She’s doing swimmingly!” she cried.

Sam made an OK sign. “She’s hunky-dory.” Then, when she wasn’t looking, he mimed glugging alcohol and twisted his eyes in opposite directions.

Elton laughed.

“When did you arrive?” Julianna asked. “Have you heard Carrie and her band yet?”

Elton looked towards the now-empty stage. “Think I did, a bit. Earlier.”

“Oh, she’s having a break now, but she’ll be back in a second! She’s one of my best friends. Her group is _so_ amazing! They’re called Beautiful Lilac Day. I think you’ll really like them when they do more of their own stuff.”

“Excellent. You look phenomenal, by the way.”

“Thank you! So do you!” She smiled between the two. “I see you’ve finally met my brother.”

“Yup. Just now.”

“He’s the cutest, isn’t he?”

“Oh, adorable.”

“Shut up, Julie,” Warren hissed, but he was smiling.

“That’s not very cute of you!” Julianna shot back.

“Bitch.”

“I’d rather have ‘bitch’ over ‘Julie.’”

“Why’s that?” Elton asked.

“I dunno. It’s a fine name, it just hits my own ear wrong. Can’t relate to it.”

“I know the feeling.” Elton delved into his pocket, pulling out the box. “Oh. Here, by the way… Happy, er, birthday… again.”

Julianna passed Sam her drink and sucked spilled alcohol from her thumb, taking the box. “You shouldn’t have!”

“That wouldn’t’ve made me a very nice birthday party guest, would it?”

“But I didn’t get you anything for yours,” she cried. “I feel bad!”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.”

“You’re so sweet. Dear me. Everybody deserves an Elton in their life.” 

_Not so sure about that. Not everybody wants one._

She opened it and gasped, almost teary-eyed. “How’d you know I wanted one of these?”

“It’s the in thing, isn’t it? I thought it was very much _your_ thing, too.”

“It is.” She plucked the ring from the box and admired it before putting it on. “Sam, check it out!”

“What is it?” Sam fed her glass back into her hand, leaning in. “One of those—”

“Mood ring,” Julianna said, passing him the jewellery box and smoothing her thumb over the beetle-like rise in the centre of her new ring. “I’ve been wanting one of these since they came out!” She _tink-tink-tink_ ’d her fingernail against it. “Wonder how long it takes to work.”

“They don’t actually work, you know,” Warren said loftily.

“How would you know?”

“I’ve got common sense. It’s just a gimmick.”

“He’s right,” Sam said. “It’s something to do with temperature.”

“Come now,” Elton chastised. “Let the girl have her mood ring. Don’t dash her dreams. I almost bought myself one. There’s a little leaflet in there that tells you what each of the colours mean.”

She smiled. “Right? It’s cool… This pair are right Debbie Downers.”

“No, it is cool,” Sam said.

“It’s just not magic,” Warren added.

Julianna scrunched up her nose, shooting out her tongue. “You’re just jealous because Elton didn’t get you anything.”

“I would’ve if I’d known he existed,” Elton said.

Warren’s elbow gently prodded his side. “What’re you talking about? He did. He gave it to me, like, twenty minutes ago.”

Julianna’s eyes scanned for something, then, not finding a thing, her mouth fell open. “Oh, are you two _kidding_ me?”

“Handed me it in the bathroom, didn’t you, love?”

“Hush, now! What’s he like, Sam?”

Sam shook his head, unshocked.

“I might’ve done,” Elton said, “but I was almost certain you did something with _your_ hands to _me_ first.”

Julianna shrieked. “You’re like two peas in a bloody pod! Get out of my face!”

“Hey.” Elton lent his elbow to Warren’s hip this time. “I don’t see what _you_ got your sister. What’d you get your big sister for her birthday?”

The twins passed a glance, then Julianna swapped places with Elton to fling an around her brother’s slight waist.

“Oh, they hadn’t got the colour of the car she wanted,” Warren said. “Had they, sis?”

“That’s right. Oh, you’re such a tease, Warren!” She lightly smacked his chest.

“You’re telling me,” Elton said.

“Stop it! No, seeing his little face when I gave him his gift was good enough.”

“And what was that?” Elton asked.

“She got me a bunch of records.”

A hit of elation. “Ooh, ain’t that nice?”

“Yeah, there were about six or seven boxes full.”

“What kind of stuff do you like?”

“What doesn’t he like would be a better question,” Sam said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, but he _loves_ Diana Ross,” Julianna said.

“Of course, she’s a fucking legend.” Warren folded his arms. “I’d give anything in the world to be her.”

“But then you wouldn’t be my little brother!” Julianna pinched his cheek. “Ain’t that right? And that’s the best gift I could ask for on any of my birthdays!”

“Isn’t that sweet? God, I could almost shed a tear.” Elton motioned towards Sam. “What about you, Sam, did you get such a privilege?”

“I did not. It is hard to buy stuff for a girl who has everything, but I don’t think I did too bad.”

“The next thing you’ll be buying her is a ring, huh? Different kind, though, to that one.”

“You kidding? As if.”

“How come?”

“We’ve had that conversation a billion times, Elton.” She unclipped from Warren now. “He’s holding a grudge because I don’t wanna change my surname.”

“Surely that’s not a deal-breaker,” Elton said.

“It’s not!” Sam defended.

Julianna looped her fingers with Warren’s. “I’d be open to taking on a double-barrel, but I’m not dropping Souvegnier entirely.” She held their hands aloft. “We gotta stick together!”

“Oh, that’s French, is it?” Elton said.

“Sounds it. No idea.”

“Hm, maybe Belgian?”

A smirk played on Warren’s lips.

“Who knows! Where’s Bernie?” Julianna shot a puzzled look between them. “I talked to him for, like, five minutes earlier, think I saw him floating about for a bit…”

Elton let out a string of half-words before he said: “Don’t know. Don’t know where he is.”

“He said he was leaving,” Sam lended, tapping Julianna’s shoulder.

“He did?”

“Yeah. Said he had to go.”

“What for?”

“Well, shit. How am I meant to know?”

“When’d he go?”

“He left…” Sam blew out air. “Half-hour ago?”

“Oh yeah…” Julianna seemed to recall, then she made a show of her drink. “Oh, God. My mind’s leavin’ me.”

Elton laughed, scratching the glossy side of his neck as humiliation sank back into his core. “Do you mind if I float about with you guys?”

“Of course not! Not at all! Sure, that’s why you were invited! I’m owed some fun time with you, and we’re making sure absolutely nothing can spoil it.” Julianna looked around, passing little waves to people as they came in through the doors. “Is anybody else hungry? There’s food laid on in the other room.”

Elton couldn’t think of anything worse, or anything better. “Yeah.”

“Same, I’m proper fuckin’ starving, actually.” Warren winked at him, then moved to link an arm through his. “Sex always gives me an appetite.”

“Oh my _God_ , we get it!” Julianna cried, clapping her hand to her face.

“Only good sex, though,” he added.

“Right, it’s all over here.” Julianna led the way.

Elton spent the rest of the night with them, where a steady-flow of conversation and drinks, and Warren-supplied cocaine, distracted him from Bernie and every other issue that was burrowing in his mind. At the end of the night, no stars in sight, Warren and Elton hung back outside the club in the crisp air.

“Do I get a souvenir?” Elton asked him.

Sam and Julianna called from further up the road, holding open a taxi’s door.

“Warren, hurry up.”

“Are you sure you’re not coming with us, Elton?”

Elton gave a wobbly nod Julianna’s way, then turned back.

Warren pulled Elton’s arm out from its sleeve and turned it over. His eyes traced it. Elton couldn’t say a word.

Warren popped the lid off a lipstick he pulled from his pocket and Elton watched him scrawl a phone number on top of the raised marks. He didn’t say a thing either.

Elton yanked his sleeve back down. “You’re more like your sister than I thought.”

“Don’t say that,” Warren said, capping his lipstick.

“Why not? She’s lovely.”

“Maybe, but she’s not what I want to be thinking about.”

Light rain fell like a mist, and Warren made off like a fox in daybreak, blowing a kiss before hopping in the car with Julianna and Sam. They sped off in the opposite direction and Elton paced in a crooked line for a moment, wondering what there was to do now. He considered hailing them down and changing his mind about going with them. He looked at his watch. 3AM. His lift should be coming soon. He went to stand below the slight dip that hung over the fronts of the buildings and rubbed his hands together to create temporary heat. He turned inwards, towards the shutter, creating an insulating barrier—him and this metal against the world. Then he saw that the marking on the shutter had a mate: freshly carved, not yet as soiled as its predecessor, and overlapping it slightly.

_AS AM I_

+

Getting to New York City was a trip in itself. The usual private jet was getting repairs done, and John was apparently unable to make arrangements for another one, which lead to them having to use a public airport to board one there.

Elton was hyper-aware of the plastic bag full of coke shoved down the front of his trousers. He was uncertain if he was the only one able to hear it chafing. He was already high before they left, enough to cast his mind away from all that happened in the past weeks. Diffused it. He’d done another line in the limousine on the way there. There was a minimal audience outside, maybe forty people, as well as a handful of photographers. God knows how they found out he was going there.

He strode in past the crowd, flashing smiles and peace signs back at the fans and glaring cameras. The airport thought it would be a good idea to play his own songs over the speakers at an offensively loud volume. Maybe that had given people a clue. The one on at the moment wasn’t even a hit. He could expect ‘Crocodile Rock,’ but they were playing ‘The Cage.’ Niche one.

A small golden retriever looked up at him and Elton grinned at it, then at its two cop handlers. He was untouchable. Nothing at all could reach or stop him.

He strode on, then felt a firm clutch on his shoulder.

He spun.

“Sorry to disturb you,” one of the cops said, thick Yorkshire accent. He gestured to the dog. “She followed you along there. D’you, uh, mind if we bring you in for a quick chat?”

“Oh.” Elton looked at the dog and smiled at it again. “Sure. A little chat? No problem.”

He rolled his shoulders back, confident and consciously trying to portray it. He followed them to the room merrily. He didn’t care what happened. He was certain that nothing would. He looked back over his shoulder before going inside, catching John’s intense look, and grinned at him before skipping inside.

The tiny room was barren, save for a shadeless light bulb dangling from the ceiling and a rackety table and three chairs. It was unnerving to begin with, but Elton supposed all he could do was act casual. Act like he had nothing to hide. And his confidence resurfaced. He scraped a chair out and slumped into it.

“If you do have anything on you that you shouldn’t, your best bet would be to let us know now, pal,” the first cop said, propping a finger on the desk as he took one of the opposing seats. “Before we’ve to search you.”

Elton tsked, then ran his tongue over his teeth.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, leaning back in the uncomfy chair. “I haven’t got anything.”

“Well, you’re a rockstar, ain’t you? Just taking precautions, sir. Do you ever use drugs at all? Cocaine? Marijuana?”

Elton clicked his tongue, then his grin spread further. “Don’t be silly. I’m a good boy.”

Both cops continued to stare, indifferent.

“Look,” Elton said, then delved into all of his jacket’s pockets, pulling tidbits out and setting them on the table one by one. A few buttons, frays of string. “Oh, look.” He pulled out a lighter and clicked it. “But no spoon.” He set it down, then trailed out each of his pockets’ linings. “See, I’ve got nothing, no paraphernalia, not a thing.”

“Stop taking stuff out of your pockets.”

There was a few seconds’ silence.

“I’m helping you…”

“Don’t do it,” the other, burlier one added.

“Oh, right, suit yourself.” Elton scooped his belongings back into each of his pockets and reclined again slowly. “Well then… Could I use the bathroom, very quickly, before we carry on, gents?”

The cops shared a look.

“I’m absolutely busting.” He squirmed his legs together carefully, enough to convey the need but stifled enough not to crackle the bag in his trousers. “Very long drive. I was making my way to the bathroom there when you two gentlemen brought me in.”

“Sure,” the first cop decided, and pointed to a door on his left. “Right in there.”

Elton pressed his hands together in a thankful prayer and bound up from his seat. He went through the door, feeling them stare, but he chuckled under his breath once it flapped shut, slating them for their obliviousness and gullibility.

“Idiots.”

He ran the tap to create a white noise, then held his lower lip in his teeth as he pulled the bag out of his trousers. He watched himself drop it into the bowl. He considered lifting it back out and just bolting it out the door, but the more reasonable side of his brain stopped him. That would cause a problem. He could let it go this time. He could always get more.

He whacked the flusher a few times, and it eventually plunged down. When he slinked back out, the cops had come to the conclusion that he was free to go.

Were they serious?

“She must’ve made a mistake,” one said. “She’s training.”

The dog looked at the floor, as if aware of what they were saying.

“Sorry for inconveniencing you,” said the other.

“It was no trouble at all,” Elton said. “No worries, don’t even worry about it.”

That was a close one. But it also meant he had no need to flush the fucking coke.

One of them held the door open for him.

“Would either of you like an autograph? It’d be a nice reminder for you, would it not?” Elton pointed skyward, referring to the music playing from outside the door. “You two must be the big fans.”

“We’re good.”

“Alright. Catch you fellas later.” Elton stopped himself from patting either of their shoulders. “Maybe… maybe on the way back, then.”

He left and the door slammed shut on its own. John closed in on him with a maniacal wideness to his eyes.

“Keep your knickers on.” Elton patted his lapel, confidential in tone. “All’s fine.”

“Where’s the cocaine?”

“In the pigs’ toilet.”

John’s eyes somehow doubled in size. “Are you fucking joking?”

“I’m not,” Elton said. He nodded towards the end of the terminal. “Now, come on, or we’ll miss our flight.”

The entire flight he thought about Warren. He should have asked if he wanted to come with him. No, maybe that would have been too much. Oh, well. It was too late now anyway. He’d copied his number down in a page of his journal as soon as he got back to his house that night, and was now left on a private jet, wondering when or if there was a right time to call him. It was him, obviously, who scratched over the phrase on the shutters.

Every time his mind drew back to Bernie, he reminded himself that he had left Julianna’s party without even saying goodbye, and then called the following day to make up for it. To probably dish out some lies about why.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Bernie had said, “Juniper w—”

“Don’t even wanna hear it.”

_CLACK._

+

Elton and John arrived in New York without a second hitch. The hotel was lavish and beautiful, and the suite they were given was naturally massive, enough for a small family, and also elaborately kitted out specifically for Elton John. They stayed in separate rooms. Which was welcome, because Elton didn’t really want to sleep next to him for what felt like the first time. He could do the shows, then come back and sleep for as long as he liked, or do as many drugs as he liked, in a room of his own anyways. And he managed to replenish, and even increase, his previous amount of cocaine tenfold. It was a win-win.

He did a brief interview with a magazine called Distinguish, where the usual topics were discussed. Nothing new, nothing exciting. Definitely nothing distinguished. Elton had wondered whether the kid asking the questions worked for a magazine at all. The only reason he agreed to it in the first place was because the reporter caught him off guard: making it past security and knocking on his door, claiming room service in a falsetto voice. When he opened the door and saw the notebook and pen in hand and not a trolley or duster, he had admired the guy’s dedication. That was gutsy indeed. That was distinguishable.

“There was an incident involving you reported about a week ago,” the guy had said, about ten minutes in, “from London. Do you mind if I… bring that up?”

“I don’t mind one bit.” Elton leaned his head against his fingertip. “Wasn’t me.”

“Are you saying that it was a false story?”

“Well, there was no pictures, no proof… How’d you know it was me?”

The end of the interview came soon after.

He did the shows as intended, all sixteen, and then [ another interview, but with Rolling Stone](https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/elton-john-lonely-at-the-top-rolling-stones-1976-cover-story-238734/).

He supposed he’d ended up saying what he’d said and not ‘confessing’ the whole truth and nothing but because the little voice in the back of his mind, John’s most likely, had roped him in at the last minute. Still, relief was what he felt now. Radiant and relentless relief.

The moment he showed the interviewer out of the hotel room, eavesdropping John tried to stamp out his relief. He was not at all pleased with the end result.

“You’re bisexual. Are you fucking kidding?”

Elton pulled his bedroom’s door back against his body like a shield. “Well, obviously I’m not bisexual… it just came out.”

“Exactly. _You_ just came out.”

“Who fucking cares?”

“You will.” His tone fell to measured, arrogant. “What did I tell you, for years, about saying something like that?”

“You said it wouldn’t end well,” Elton said. “But I beg to differ, because my life can’t end any worse than it is right now.”

“You think you’re great, don’t you? Well, we’ll see how this goes for you. I won’t be the one digging you out once the shit hits the fan, I’m telling you that now. You’re as stupid as you’re big, and look at the size of you.”

Elton gasped, even though he shouldn’t have been shocked. A hand crept to his middle while the other one slammed the door, missing John’s nose by an inch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The link to the interview at the end is only for interactive/entertainment purposes. It is a real interview (and a good read, though not necessary for the story to make sense), so obviously it is not affiliated with this story, or me.


	15. Inches From Madness

+

Everything, every detail he could remember, good and bad, had etched itself in his mind. Vivid, and colliding. Playing again and again. Sometimes the versions of himself in his mind did the same as he did, other times they did better. What he should have said, or done. Everything was running through his mind at once. Had been. For the last few weeks.

His boyfriend—well, ex now—had cheated on him, again, and realistically had probably been doing so for the entirety of their relationship. All of those late nights, excuses… it should have been obvious. But Elton was oblivious and had been holding out hope that he really had meant what he said. Now, John refused to leave the house when he asked him to. He came and went as he pleased. Old habits must really die hard. When he was there, they moved around each other without communicating, like two caged lions. It was giving Elton a rabid case of cabin fever.

His best friend, he hadn’t seen in weeks. His best friend, who he kissed, because he was in love with him. Bernie knew it was a mistake, but Elton didn’t, he couldn’t, and Bernie knew that, and that was why he wasn’t calling or stopping by. Elton wanted to call him, but he wouldn’t. He wanted Bernie to do it, but knew that Juniper likely wasn’t letting him.

And lastly, his last hope, a one-night stand in a grotty bathroom, he was too afraid to call. What if he didn’t remember giving his number to him? He’d have to be let down easy by a guy he met once. Either that was his fear, or he was too ashamed of how clear calling a guy he’d met once would make his desperation.

The album had come out. That was a positive, at least. ‘Blue Moves’ was his favourite release to date, because it was aptly miserable for the most part.

“I know you like your sweet stuff, but you’ve been lumping sugar into that tea for ages.”

Dot’s voice interrupted the thoughts he’d been transfixed by, the gentle chiming of the teaspoon against the inside of the mug had become hypnosis. He slowed his stir, but didn’t stop.

“Throw that out, pet, I’ll fix you a new one.”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll take it as it is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said.

“Is everything alright?”

Elton let go of a drawn out breath, letting his head fall forward and the spoon clink to a stop.

“Where’s Bernie these days? He usually cheers you right up.”

“Yeah… Don’t know where he is.”

“Why don’t you give him a call? He’s probably at home.”

Elton could only shake his head.

“Oh. Well, that’s fine… Maybe he’ll call you. Are you sure about that tea, love?”

Elton nodded, scooping the mug up.

“Okay.” Dot returned the sugar pot to its allocated spot further back on the worktop. “Whatever he’s done or said to you this time, pet, don’t let it get you down. You keep your little chin up. He’s not worth it.” She waggled the cloth in her hand. “And don’t let him see he’s upset you either, that’ll just make him think he’s got the better of you, and you don’t want that.”

Truth was, John had already gotten the better of him. Months, _years_ ago. Bernie was a different matter, and the one that was the most prominent in his mind.

Elton staggered to the table, throwing himself into a chair, bringing the lukewarm mug to his lips.

Dot leant in, taking it from him. “Give it here, son. You torture yourself enough without forcing down a nasty cup of tea. I’m making you a new one. I can’t stand by and let you drink that.”

She returned with a piping hot mug, and Elton took a mouthful before giving it any time to cool. It scorched his tongue, and did the same all the way to his stomach. Still, it was far nicer than what was waiting for him in the previous mug. And it was so sweet, what Dot did. She wouldn’t let him have a mug of depression-dazed, over-sweetened tea. Meanwhile, his best friend couldn’t find it in him to call again. Or even stop by. And his boyfriend—his ex boyfriend—well, where could you start?

“There. Now, isn’t that better?”

“Mm-hm. Thank you.”

Dot secured her hands to his shoulders. “You and him’s gonna have to sort yourselves out. You have to get to the heart of the matter, love. He’s the only one that makes you look this miserable. You can’t keep this up, son. Make you ill, that will.”

Elton’s tired eyes glistened, he looked up at her, nodded, then drank the rest of his tea.

He noted the tea in his journal as the only thing he’d ingested all day. Ignoring and struggling through the hunger pangs had fallen back into second nature. Any time he fucked up, he made sure he made up for it.

He resettled into the nest of pillows, duvets, and envelopes he’d left to make the atrocity in his first mug, and picked up on the next line of coke, then lifted the next letter.

He had been staying up all night for the past three, four, possibly more, nights; intermittently journaling in between reading and writing out replies to all of the people who had reached out to him. Every last one. They hadn’t stopped pouring in since the last interview he did in New York. Sure, it dug up some woodlice from under their rocks, but it had mostly done good. And the good ones weren’t all just fans. Some of them made sure to explicitly state so.

_I was never a huge fan of yours. I’d heard enough of you on the radio and in my mother’s living room to never want to buy one of your albums. I’d say sorry, but I know my previous aversion to you had no effect on you whatsoever. But I wanted to tell you, as I’m sure plenty of others have, that you coming out, saying what you did, is one of the greatest things you’ve ever done. That might not seem like a lot coming from someone who never considered themselves a fan, but hear me out. My mother kicked me out four weeks ago because she found out I was gay. Found out, ‘cause I didn’t tell her myself. She thinks it’s wrong, and thinks that ‘they’ did not exist in her time. She’s a huge fan of yours. I suppose you saying what you said might make her understand better. Then again, if she can’t accept her own daughter for being a lesbian, it might just make her throw out your records. Either way, what you did, the way you did it, is one step closer to normalising it, making it as casual as anything else. We’ve always been here, we just could never say so. What you did was really important. Not only for you, but for all of us._

John had tried to guilt him into backtracking and withdrawing his statement, multiple times, but he couldn’t. Elton knew it was the right thing to do, even though it had not been entirely true. It’d still given some kid somewhere hope. And that was enough for now. And if people like this kid’s mother couldn’t bring herself to listen to his music anymore, then who cared? It alleviated something inside of him, offered a helping of hope his way, in ways most if not all of the senders were not aware of. They were something to hold onto when everything else was so bleak. He had done something. Helped.

He read through and penned a dozen more replies, then took a much-needed shower; not for the need, he didn’t wash so much as sit below the water flow, for the comfort of being in a closed off cubicle while he cut into his arms and thighs, and letting the water rush over, clearing the blood down the drain. He no longer postponed it to when things were really overwhelming. It was a habit, or maybe compulsion was a better word. Any time things got even a little tough, he turned to that to tide him over, to try to scratch the negative emotions from his flesh when they infested it. That was how it felt.

There was one single knock at the bedroom door.

Not Bernie’s trademark double, not that he expected that, or John’s usual lack of any. This uncertainty, this lack of custom, made his thoughts spiral. He could be mistaking a sound the house made for knocking. The house was bound to be old enough to settle; mind playing tricks—it was a familiar occurrence. It came with, like an instruction manual with a game, when you spent hours or days riddling your sinuses with coke. Or… Cops. Easily. Possibly even more likely than a crack in his wits. What if it was the cops? What the fuck could he do if it was the fucking cops?

Elton instantly shut the shower head off with a _skreek_ , listening again. Water dripped irritatingly. His nose began to run again. Another knock—two this time, quieter than before. It was real. He stepped out and what was most definitely terror now gripped his insides. He called out, forcing friendliness into his voice.

“Who is it?”

It was probably Dot. Had to be.

He pulled his underwear over wet and therefore sticky skin, and put his dressing gown on. The odd reflection of colour that represented himself in the steamed up mirror made the already-tense hairs on his arm stand harder on end. He kicked rubbish out of his way, then set his dripping feet onto the rug in his bedroom, treaded forward three steps, leaving behind soaked prints. He wet his scorched-dry lips and squinted, looked at the clock. It was almost ten. _What?_ Dot would have gone home ages ago.

“Yes?” he said with the same forced brightness, stepping closer. “Hello? Who is it?”

The handle spun, and Bernie’s head appeared around the door.

“Bernie…” Elton held his dressing gown together, then crossed his arms to pin it tight. He rubbed the backs of his fingers up his nose. “What’re you— What’re you doing here?”

“Wanted to check in, see how you are.” Bernie looked around the room. “Jeez. You look rough…”

Bernie himself looked wan, his skin blighted with an asheness that didn’t suit him, didn’t look right. His hair had grown out a little; it was in a loose ponytail, collected, leaving only strands to line his face. This, usually, was complementary, but now it only dramatised how pallid he looked. And he didn’t look like he was taking pleasure in what he was saying, in fact he looked like it physically pained him. Still, Elton moved to sit back amongst the letters on his bed. He neatly lined them up and stacked them, setting some of them on top of the bedside table, next to the cocaine. “Thanks. Sorry, John, not sure how, but I mistook you for Bernie for a second. Apologies.”

Bernie looked even more pained. “Don’t.”

Elton shrugged, reaching for the tissue the cocaine was on, bringing it to his clogged up nostrils to inhale.

“I’m not saying it to be rude.” Bernie shovelled cans out of the way with his foot, forming a path he could walk through. He sat opposite him. “I’m saying it as your friend, because I’m… concerned.”

“No need to be.”

Bernie looked at him funny. “What’s up with your hair? Is that sweat?”

“No, it’s not. My hair is _wet_. Wet. I was in the shower.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I know you find it shocking that I’d willingly get in the shower, but you learn something new every day, don’t you? I am quite able to take care of myself. What are you here for? You’ve got no need to be concerned.”

Bernie took his hand. “I think… I think that there is a need. How long has it been since this room was cleaned, by the way? Leave it to me, I’ll clear it up for you, okay? Then we can—”

“Well, who needs enemies when one’s got friends like you, eh?”

“Ouch…” Bernie looked like he’d been sucker punched in the guts. “What have I done?”

“That’s a good question. What _have_ you done? Since when, actually, do you give a shit? You weren’t concerned enough to come and see me before this. Frankly, you were quite happy not seeing me for ages.”

“I know that, I’m sorry. That’s another reason why I’m here, I- I want to sort everything out. All of it, now. I knew you’d be doing something like this, hiding away.”

“Well, it sure took you long enough to come and find me.”

He looked nervous, he swallowed noisily, but his eyes were steadfast. “You’ve got a problem, Elton…”

Elton pushed the tissue into his nose, leaving it wedged inside. He looked at his hand in his and considered yanking it away. “I’ve got many problems.”

“Yeah, but not like this. We need to do something. It’s fine, I’m not judging, there’s no harm in it—well, as long as you get it sorted… as soon as possible.”

Bernie let go of his hand long enough to unwrangle the mulberry bobble from his hair. He lifted Elton’s hand again, and worked it over, leaving it on his wrist.

“What’s that for?”

Bernie didn’t answer that. “We need to get you some help…” he said.

“We?”

“You can’t deal with all this on your own. I think you need professional help. I think you need to take a step back, and—”

“Can you answer my question?” Elton’s mind had caught on that, needed an answer. “What made you come now? Did John tell you to do this?”

“No, why would I— What are you still doing with him anyway, Elton? He’s no good for you ei—”

“Mind your own fucking business.” Elton finally snatched his hand from his.

Bernie was unfazed by the venom in his voice. “He shouldn’t have free rein of your house.”

“Well, you’ve become acquainted with letting yourself in uninvited, too. Wouldn’t you say?”

“All I’m saying is… don’t forget what he did to you.”

“How could I forget?” Elton screamed, and Bernie jolted at that. “Hm? He broke my heart. Just like he breaks my heart every other bloody day.”

 _And just like you did_.

“Now, answer me.” Elton shot to his feet, pulling the tissue from his nose. “What made you come here _now_? Why’d you not see me for so long? Weeks? After fucking ditching me? And before you start making excuses, I heard what that bitch said about me.”

Something died in his eyes. Elton almost saw his heart physically drop.

“Oh,” Bernie said.

“Yes.”

“I see…”

“Even though she’s clearly a stupid bitch, that really fucking hurt. Then you didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You left me standing there like a fucking idiot.”

“She was annoying me, I just wanted to get out of there. I’m really sorry, I know I messed up doing that—”

“You couldn’t have stopped to tell me on your way out? And you couldn’t even have called me?”

“I did try to call you.”

“Well, you should have tried harder. I heard what she said, so I didn’t really feel like talking to you when you called the very next day. You can understand that, can’t you? I was expecting you to tell me a load of horse shit.”

“I wouldn’t. I wasn’t.”

“Then you don’t even show your face for weeks,” Elton said. “I thought you fucking hated me, too. Now you’re here, and the _first_ thing to leave your mouth, before even saying sorry for that, or for your homophobic bitch of a girlfriend, is that I need ‘professional’ help? You have some fucking nerve. Did you not think it might be a good idea to let your good friend Elton know what the fuck was going on instead of leaving me wondering what I did to make my best, my only real friend, fucking hate me?”

“I don’t hate you. It wasn’t like that.”

“Well, that’s what it was like for me.”

“I’m so sorry. Really.” Bernie sighed. “Every time I was with her lately, that was all she could talk about… I don’t know what her problem is.”

“I know what her problem is. She _told_ you what her problem is. So, what? Is that me and you finished? We aren’t allowed to be friends? Is that part of what you wanted to tell me?”

“No, Elton.”

“Are you sure she’s okay with you being here tonight? Maybe you should give her a call, let her know I haven’t taken your drawers down. Because I am a sex-crazed basket case, aren’t I, Bernie? Our Juniper’s got the queers all sussed out. We’re all the same. We haven’t got an ounce of self-control.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this. And I know I shouldn’t have left you so long, let me explain—”

“And you do realise I’m on my own here. I’ve got John, but that’s as good for me as a fucking hole in the head. He doesn’t even talk to me, you know. I’ve got all these letters,” he fingered the top layer off, clattering to the floor, “but I’ve got nothing here. Nobody cares, nobody comes to see me, I feel like a fucking—”

Bernie eyed the range of letters left on the nightstand, then looked back. “I asked if you wanted to come back with me after New York.”

“You wouldn’t even come with me _to_ New York.”

“Elton… I wanted to go, but things were…”

“More important. Yup, don’t worry, I understand that completely. Your precious farm, your _precious_ girlfriend… Of course. Of course she’s more important to you than me. I don’t blame you.”

Something about that did something. Something came to. Something switched. Bernie’s demeanor deflated.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Juniper’s not my girlfriend anymore. We broke up.”

“When?” Elton whispered.

“Ages ago.”

The clock ticked. Seemed to go on for ages.

“Well. Explains why you’re here, then.”

Bernie’s face fell another mile.

“What?” Elton said. “Obviously you’re only here now because you’ve got no one else. I’m not stupid, you know. You think I don’t know what you’re up to? We could have been there for each other. But instead—”

“What’s that?”

Bernie pointed, and Elton looked down. Pink water was trickling down the inside of his leg. He swiped at the trails with his foot.

“Are you cutting yourself?”

Elton debated lying, like he usually would. But… no. No. There was no reason to. Not anymore.

“Yeah.” He offered a leg through his dressing gown, showing nothing but a sliver of pasty skin, but the invitation was there. “Wanna see? You might even be able to catch a glimpse of my breakfast as well, don’t think I’ve flushed it yet.”

Bernie couldn’t stop shaking his head. His eyes raked Elton’s face. “Not again,” he said finally. “Why?”

“Look at the state of me. I’m fat as fuck.”

“You’re not.”

“And yes, before you ask, I’ve been doing it this whole time. I’ve been lying. But you knew that, didn’t you? Bernie knows everything.”

Sighing, Bernie pushed his fingertips through his hair. “You are your own worst enemy. There is nothing wrong with you. You don’t have to lose weight. Even if you did, that isn’t the way to go about it. I _knew_ things were getting bad again. You need help, you really need help…”

“You know, you saying that is the most annoying thing on Earth.”

“Let me help. This isn’t normal, Reg…”

“ _Don’t_ call me that!” Elton screamed. “None of this, not one bit, is fucking normal. I do what I can to get by every day, I do what I know helps. And then you come here and start telling me what you think I need to do, after boycotting me for weeks. You don’t ever stop and even _think_ to listen to me for a change. Instead of ordering me around.”

“When do I ever not listen to you?”

“You’re doing it right now!” Elton moved to cut up more coke. “You are doing it right fucking now. It’s so annoying.”

“Tell me, then.” Bernie shifted, patted the mattress. “Explain it. All I said was that you have a problem, and you need help. What’s wrong with that?”

“I have many problems.”

“Exactly!”

Elton snorted the line. “And, Bernie, my friend, there’s a lot wrong with that. So much so, I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“You don’t think this is a drug problem?”

Elton tutted. “Don’t start. You’re just like John.”

“Well, if he’s been saying the same, then I’m afraid it’s the first time I’ll have to agree with him.”

“The resemblance between you two is actually quite striking,” Elton said, preparing another line. “Never noticed it before until now. Maybe you should give him a call, maybe he’ll be able to fit you into his schedule. Wait, better not—Miss Bright wouldn’t like that.”

“I’m serious, Elton, all of this… all of it is a problem. How can you not see that? You don’t think having to do all this shit to cope with life is a problem? People die.”

“Every damn day. And— You know what, why don’t you listen? Genuinely. Real question. I’d love to know. Because you would do everything I do if you had to live like this, if you had to deal with the shit I do. You don’t understand. And I am not in the mood to get preached to, by you, when you’ve got no idea.”

His face was grim and dour. “I try to understand.”

“Well, that’s not good enough.”

Bernie stared on as he snorted the second line; the black holes that his eyes now were bored deeper into his face.

“I’m putting myself first for a change.” Elton clacked the razor to the wood, then rammed another wad of coke-powdered tissue up his nostril. “I’m doing what I see fit. Just… leave me to get on with it. Don’t run your damn mouth telling me I need help when I should know what I need. People do what they have to, and if it’s not hurting anybody, I don’t see why you’ve got a problem.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

Elton sniffed. “So?”

“You’re hurting me.”

A crackle of rage set off inside of him, strong enough to make him shiver. “How am I fucking hurting you? How does any of this hurt you? Do you not understand how much you’ve hurt me? How am I fucking hurting you?”

Bernie tried for words, but then stopped, and gestured broadly. “Look at all this…”

“What’s the matter?” Elton shimmied against the pillows, then indicated to the swamp of clothes and half-finished meals decorating. “I’m as happy as a pig in mud, actually, here in my own filth.”

“I don’t mean just that…”

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” Elton continued, now playing with the hem of his dressing gown like a child being told off. He pulled the tissue from his nose defiantly, and his nose ran like a tap. “Look, if you can’t understand, then you can fuck off right back to Lincolnshire. I don’t need you here. I don’t need this, I don’t need you at all. And you’re not saving the day by being here.”

“I’m not trying to save the day,” Bernie said, his tone wounded, his face twisted like he had been. “I just want to help. I’m trying to help you.”

“Oh, fuck _off_ , Bernie…”

“I am. You don’t see it, but I am. That’s all I ever want to do, is help you. And you’re making it… _so_ difficult.”

“Yes, because I don’t need help. Not yours or anyone else’s.”

“You do need help!” Bernie almost yelled, and it took Elton aback. He’d never seen him so… mad.

“I do not!”

“You do! And not only that, you deserve it. Just because you’re functioning, just because you’re somehow waking up every morning, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve help. Now, come on. Listen to me. I am literally begging you to.”

Elton cut another line. Neither said anything for a few moments. The clock ticked loudly. Bernie got to his feet, faux leather jacket squeaking.

“I can’t watch you do this,” he said, pulling his hair out from where it got sucked into the collar.

“Shut your fucking eyes, then.” Elton pushed his nostril shut and inhaled through the other. “I’m not holding them open.”

“No. No, I can’t watch you do this to yourself, in general. If you don’t stop… If you don’t stop with all the drinking, doing coke, and whatever else you do… making yourself sick, fucking cutting yourself… I can’t be around you anymore.”

“Oh. I get it.”

“What?”

“Makes perfect sense. Well, I give it to you for coming and doing it to my face. That takes integrity.”

“Doing what?”

“This is your way of abandoning me for good. That’s why you’ve really come here. You’ve probably been waiting to do this for years. You tried to do it before, actually, remember that, do you? You probably planned all of this out in the last few weeks.” Elton aimlessly fidgeted with the items on his nightstand. “You say you fucking care, yet you see me struggling, feeling low, and all you’re gonna do is use it as a means to leave me. You’re only attributing it to your stupid sober talk to disguise what you’re really wanting to do. Yeah, you really care. Thanks a lot.”

“You are struggling, but you won’t even listen to what I’m trying to say to help you,” Bernie said. “Are you kidding?”

“Well, congrats on finally doing it. You don’t fucking care, you’re just like everybody else. In fact, you’re even worse for pretending to give a shit for so long. To think I ever trusted you.”

“Elton, I am _worried_ about you. I’ve been worried about you for ages. Can’t you see that? I can’t watch you doing this to yourself, I can’t sit and watch you fucking kill yourself! I can’t, and I won’t. Every time I see you—”

“When do you see me?”

“Can you just let me finish? Each time I see you, you’re getting worse. _Worse_.” Bernie raked his fingers through his hair again, hands remaining buried at either side. “And _I_ broke up with her, by the way. You think I’m going to let her talk about you like that? She’s said some shit in her life, but she’d never come out with the likes of that before. When we got back to hers, she gave me the choice between you and her. An ultimatum. I chose you. That’s why I didn’t come for so long—I was- I was depressed, I was trying to figure out what to do. I didn’t know. I knew you’d be mad. And on top of that, I was dreading seeing whatever you were getting yourself into up here. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

“You couldn’t bring yourself to at least call me at some point, either?”

“I called you once, and you hung up on me. And the longer I left it, I didn’t know what to do. But I came today. I came because I _care_ about you, I wanted to see you. I wanted to apologise. For her. For leaving. Then seeing you, I wanted to help you as well. Help you end all of this shit. But I clearly can’t. I thought if I could just get talking to you… I should have known you’d do this.”

“Yes, you should’ve. All-knowing, all-seeing Bernie definitely should have seen this coming.”

“If you won’t help yourself, if you refuse to even see the problems you’ve got, then there’s nothing more I can do… And I don’t want to stick around to watch whatever happens. In fact, it’s not even that I don’t want to, I can’t, I physically can’t do it. I love you too much. And I hate to say it, but you’re pushing me to the brink, man. _Please_ …”

He trailed off, and the clock ticked three more times. He was just going to leave. Like that.

“Get out,” Elton said, quiet but morose.

“No—”

“Just get out!” Elton shouted, face straining red. “You wanna leave, so go. I won’t be weighing down your conscience anymore. You’re not helping anyone, okay? I don’t fucking need you. You’re not a miracle worker, and you don’t even know what you’re talking about. You can’t—” He growled, tossing a stray letter that was sharply indenting his leg across the room. “You can’t do everything!”

Bernie looked the most crestfallen Elton had ever seen him, and even though he was beyond mad at him, it still hit him with a wave of despair that made him drop his head, watching his hands ferociously rub together instead of looking at him. The mucus from his nose dripped onto them.

And Bernie lingered for a moment, perhaps in his thoughts, as if trying to think of something else he could say. But then he gave up and started for the door. He lingered there, too.

“I know,” he said. “I know, I’m really sorry.”


	16. The Fear That Dwells Inside A Man

+

September 16th, 1977.

He knew that was the date because the television that had been chatting away in the background had told him so at some point earlier in the day.

Bernie had been gone for almost a year. He rang the odd time: Christmas, Elton’s birthday. But that was it. He didn’t mention coming to visit, he didn’t talk about getting help. He tried to act as if all that had left his mind, his only motive to call being to say hello, to hear what he was up to. But his tone of voice was evidence that was not true. It hadn’t. And Elton tried to stay bitter towards him, giving curt responses, not calling him on his birthday. Because Bernie was wrong.

But he was still wearing the hair tie around his wrist. Similarly, he kept wearing the necklace and ring John had bought him. They were nice, separate from the meanings John had tied to them. He couldn’t conjure up a reason for wearing Bernie’s, other than secretly wanting him to come back.

John had managed to find somewhere else to stay. Elton never questioned him on it—where or who. They had broken up. But it wasn’t the life-changing, purgative experience he wanted or needed it to be. John was the one person he wanted to leave, yet he was still coming around, and any time he was there, his presence was similar to that of a poltergeist: looming through the rooms and halls, only there to cause havoc.

The television was mostly muted; not from manually turning the volume down, but from the alcohol and prescription medication mix in his brain. But it was not enough to stop him from hearing the man on the screen saying Marc Bolan’s name.

Elton perked up and lifted the remote, increasing the volume to louder than necessary. His vision was hazed over, he didn’t know where his glasses were, but it was obviously a photo of Marc beside the anchor’s head.

 _“Reports have confirmed that, yes, glam rocker Marc Bolan has died,”_ he said. _“The T. Rex star was killed this evening in a tragic car accident on Gipsy Lane, South London, at the frankly appalling age of just 29. His girlfriend, Gloria Jones, was driving the Mini when she lost control, and the vehicle spiralled and collided with the metal rail. Marc died instantly, while Gloria sustained severe injuries that have left her unconscious and residing in hospital, where she is yet to be informed of her terrible loss.”_

The air was ringing. Elton wanted to wake up, but knew it wasn’t possible. He hurled the remote at the screen, but the glass was hard—it made a loud clunk, and no damage was done.

This was obscene. It was more than well-known that Marc often talked about the fact he thought, almost hoped—and in the end, somehow knew—he was going to die young. But that didn’t matter in reality, didn’t make it comforting in the slightest. The fact that it had really happened was nothing short of devastating. He was 29. He had recently dug himself out of a tough situation, dealt with his drug demons, and was set on making his way back to the top. He had a fucking two-year-old son. Now he was dead.

_“And so ends the life of a star who barely got his chance to fully shine.”_

The TV played a montage of clips and photographs of him with an overlay of T. Rex’s ‘Cosmic Dancer,’ which was now painfully and terribly eerie. Hearing Marc’s voice singing about dancing himself into a tomb was haunting, but still beautiful, and would for evermore hold a different meaning.

Elton allowed the song to finish, then pried himself from his grimy bed to turn the television off. His stomach twisted, crying out for something to eat. He went to the bathroom to dose himself with another bulk of painkillers. The numbing would work for a while, but in the end, Marc would still be dead. It didn’t seem real. Couldn’t. But it was. 

Elton couldn’t bring himself to attend the funeral. He watched the parts of it that were shown on television and left it at that. He couldn’t face going to visit a slab of stone in the ground with his name on it either. That wasn’t where he should be. He should have been immortal. It was hard and still shocking to attempt to process, so Elton avoided dwelling on it too much.

+

Sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll was how Elton John had been looking at his life, but lately, there had been very little sex and absolutely no rock n’ roll. When you didn’t have the other two components, all you had left was the middle to lean on. John had kickstarted his complaints, pushing to re-erect one of the posts—rock n’ roll—since he was no longer satisfied with the Greatest Hits album from the year before that Elton had tided him, and fans, over with.

“If you don’t mind all the songs being miserable,” Elton turned his face, unburying it and his voice from the pillow, “fine.”

“I don’t care what they are. You need to do _something_.”

But he didn’t feel like doing anything. Bernie wasn’t there. The band was gone. He had long since told them to split, he hadn’t any use for them lately. Things and people he cared about were on an exodus. Things felt much too odd.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. People have it much worse than you.”

“Saying shit like that to me isn’t what’s going to get me to want to do things, John.”

“I don’t care if it gets you wanting to do things, you need to hear it. Do as you want. Do as you please. All I’m saying is if you want to keep your career, no, if you want to keep cash to your drug dealer flowing… you might want to start working.”

Elton scoffed, “I have more than enough money.”

“Yeah, but if you’re wanting to continue this…” John nodded to the razor blade, the accompanying mounds of cocaine, “for the rest of your life, which I’m sure is your plan, you’ll need to work. As tough as that is for you, I’m sure you’ll pluck up the morale to do it in another five years when nobody cares who you are and you’ve wiped out your last bag.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Oh, right… That’s quite generous, my mistake,”— a laugh, a lick of the lips—“if you keep up the way you are, you won’t even be alive in five years’ time. You’re gonna be the next one to go.”

Elton was going to tell him to fuck himself again, but instead he took the day’s first line.

“If you want me to work…” He grinded his finger against the side of his nose, rotating. His shoulders dropped. “You’d better sort a band. And a lyricist. A studio.”

John made a face. There was a studio in the house.

“A good one,” Elton said. “I’m sick of looking at that one.”

“How can you be sick of something you never look at?”

“Sort everything. Then I’ll work.”

“You’re a fucking mess.” 

Another line.

+

John was right. About the drugs. If he wanted a sure supply, he’d have to make an album.

He went to look through the lyrics he kept in the big ornamental box inside of his closet. Any time a song Bernie had written went unused, he stowed it away. He knelt and rooted through.

Plucking a load of pages, he went back to his bed. He wasn’t planning on making a melody right then, he only wanted to see what his options were, for the time being. He replayed the last album he’d listened to—‘Streetlife Serenade,’ Billy Joel—as a backtrack, and rummaged through the papers. As always with Joel, the man had a point in his song ‘The Entertainer.’

_Today I am your champion,_

_I may have won your hearts,_

_But I know the game, you’ll forget my name,_

_And I won’t be here in another year if I don’t stay on the charts._

What a jaunty way of telling the story of something so miserable, so daunting. Something so close to happening. He hadn’t put an actual album out in about two years. Not only for drugs but for the support and loyalty of his fans, for some kind of purpose, to stay alive, he _had_ to make another album.

He pulled a page that’s header caught his attention.

_Ego_

Elton grimaced down at it, but laughed a little. That sly bastard.

He looked over the words talking about craving the light, being in it for the killing not as an extra, inflating an ego gently… If Bernie had written it with him in mind, he sure had some balls. Although Elton was almost positive he could remember them discuss that it wasn’t, it was about ‘the general, generic rockstar,’ and both of them could think of a few. _Cough,_ Bowie. But Bernie was also quick to quip, ‘But hey, man, if the boot fits, you know what to do.’

That sly bastard.

Elton went downstairs to John, who was sat in his usual TV-watching spot. The air was offensive with the smell of tobacco, and it instinctively made Elton curl his fists, but he still had the ‘Ego’ paper in hand, so he held it out, crumpling it a little. “Are you gonna sort the things I asked you to?”

“Oh, look.” John looked away from the TV. “He has risen, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Shut up. Are you gonna sort the things I asked you to or not?”

John returned to the TV. “I don’t recall you asking me to do anything.”

“Get a band, get a studio.” Elton wafted the sheet, making a wobbling noise. “Then I’ll work.”

“And a lyricist?”

“Yes, John.”

“Right. That’ll be a sad one for you, won’t it?”

Elton pushed his jaw forward.

“Blessed little Elton… What’s he going to do without his little disciple?”

“What I have done for the past almost-year. Now, will you do it or not? Because if _you_ aren’t doing _your_ job, I can fire you.”

John cruised back against the sofa, arms stretching out the length of its regal spine. “Wow. Tell me, how does one _fire_ the person who, literally, owns them? Must have slipped my mind.”

“Are you going to bloody do it or not?”

John plugged a new cigarette between his lips, lighting it. “Yes, keep your hair on, pet, I’ll do it.”

He was doing that on purpose. Trying to get a rise. Elton pushed it into the back of his mind, crushing the futile desire to tell him not to do it. Not in the house. Instinctively, his fists curved in tighter, ripping the paper.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Call me that.”

“Pet?” John let out a scathing line of air. “Why’s that, pet? You used to love that one.”

“Hm. Wonder why I don’t anymore.” Elton plucked a cushion from the sofa, patting it, replumping it, his previous settlement dissolving as he did so. “Put the cigarette out. It makes everything fucking reek. You don’t get to just do whatever you want. Especially now you don’t live here.”

John stood. “I think you’ll find I can. What are you going to do about it?”

Elton remained motionless, trying to keep a cap on the anger.

“I’ve been thinking, actually,” John said, whirling his cigarette, “about you and smoking. Yeah. It might be a habit you should look into collecting, you know, among your many others.”

“No.” Elton sniffed the cushion; it smelled of nothing in particular. He patted it again, and abruptly set it back. “I’d rather keep my house white, and not smelling putrid. Thanks.”

“That’s funny. Do you mind if I take a quick trip to your room? I think it might say something different about you. What I was saying was, you should look into it. Smoking. It’s supposed to curb your appetite, might help you lose some weight.”

“Shut up.”

“Just saying. Then again, cocaine can’t even manage to curb yours, so it mightn’t do all that much. It might be worth a go, though. Of course, up to you.”

“I’m good.” Elton busied himself, fussing again with the cushions John hadn’t really done anything to. “Rather be fat than smell like that.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Well, it is,” Elton said, thinking how much he wanted to go back to his room. Mess and all, it was better than standing here. Feeling his insides turn acidic, then his eyes sting with tears, he added: “Can you get out of my house, please?”

John raised his hand quickly, and Elton drew back.

“Stop telling me what to do. You understand?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“I can do what I want—unlike you, I do my job. If I want to be here, I’m going to be here. Because I’m only trying to get you to do yours. And if I want to smoke, I’m going to.”

Elton gave a slight nod.

“It’s not going to make anything stink. Look, you’ve got plenty of windows to open. And it’s not like I live here anymore, is it? It won’t linger long.”

“Right. Sorry.”

John raised his hand again, for no reason this time, and Elton burst into tears, crumbling to the floor with a yell. Coiling tightly, he pushed his face into the crook of his elbow, curving his other arm overhead.

“Stop, I told you it’s fine! Do whatever you want. Do whatever you want. And I told you I’ll do something, I’m going to work. Don’t fucking hurt me!”

“Get a grip. I wasn’t going to hit you.”

“How am I supposed to know that?” Elton cried.

John laughed, stomping his foot on the floor with a whip-like crack that made Elton curl further in on himself.

“What’s going on?”

The sweet voice caught Elton off guard, he knew exactly who it was. He peeked out over his arm, and Dot was stood below the doorway’s arch, clean linen tablecloth and fresh napkins in hand.

“Look, your mum’s here to save you,” John said, nudging him with the cold cap of his shoe. “Don’t worry, Dorothy, he’s playing up. You know the way he goes.”

“No.” Elton uncoiled himself, still holding a wary hand out as he glanced up at Dot’s solicitous face. She set the items aside, and her fingers played with the string on the side of her apron. Elton coughed to clear his throat. “You were threatening to hit me.”

“I was not,” John said. “I was joking around with you. The joke went over his head, darling, but I won’t hesitate to give him a real slap should he deserve one.” He laughed in a derisive way.

“Why would you want to do that?” Dot asked.

“Isn’t that right, Elton?” John looked down at him. He hadn’t heard her. “If you don’t get your ass into gear and start working on something, I’ll have to really slap you.”

He laughed again, putting the cigarette back between his lips. Elton forced a laugh, and John left.

Elton gathered himself into a slouch on the floor, head in hands. He almost felt like he had been struck. Should have been. His brain was wondering where the pain was. 

“I was getting these from the linen cupboard. Wanted to fix the table up a bit.” Dot lifted her things, shuffling closer. “I could overhear the commotion from there.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “And I didn’t want to intrude, you know better than me what he’s like, but I still wanted to come in and see what was going on. What happened this time, love?”

Elton sighed, shaking his head. He couldn’t speak for crying.

“He really didn’t hit you?”

Elton shook his head again, and covered his face.

“It’s terrible, how he treats you,” Dot said. Her hand touched his shoulder and more sobbing escaped from him, leapt from him, like spirits from a man possessed. “You don’t know whether you’re coming or going, love. Sshh, it’s okay. I know it’s easier said than done, but you let him get on with whatever it is he does, love, and you just focus on yourself. You have to. If he speaks to you about something that isn’t work, you walk away. It’s the only thing you can do. You’ll see how much better things get whenever you stop focusing on him. Better yet, with him out of your mind. Your life. Don’t mind what he does. You do your work, and then keep yourself to yourself. You can either keep repeating this, or make progress, away from him. Once you learn who you are without him, love, everything you want will follow. You’ll be able to let him go. He thinks he’s big now, but just wait, you won’t be the one feeling empty at the end of the day. He’ll be the one with regrets. And it’ll be too late.”

“You know something?” he said hoarsely. “You’re right.”

She was absolutely right.

+

Weeks later, cocaine had finally worked some of its other kinds of magic. Looking in the mirror, the man standing in it was no longer as chubby or unsightly. He actually had some definition in his jaw, and staring at it was almost as moreish as the white powder that had helped to carve it out. He still had more than a little fullness in his middle and the apples of his cheeks, but he hoped they’d disintegrate soon, too. He was dead set on making sure of it.

He could also thank Bernie’s lack of intervention for the progress. If he hadn’t have left, he’d still be shoving food down his throat, and it never would have happened. Bernie leaving was a double-edged sword that he was starting to get to grips with handling. Good things really did take time, and sometimes you had to kill your darlings, or perhaps they had to kill themselves, for you to get what you want, as well.

The new album, newly titled, ‘A Single Man’ was shaping up itself, and was starting to reflect exactly what the title implied.

John had gotten everything sorted, as promised, but since there was no Bernie, John had brought a new guy in, Gary. Elton already knew him a little, and he was lovely, his stuff was good, so everything was fine.

But he wasn’t Bernie.

Elton didn’t even know why he was still pining over him to some extent, when he clearly didn’t feel the same. He literally upped and left without a care. _He wouldn’t leave when you’re so upset if he cared._

A song was made from ‘Ego,’ and it was really exciting, vigorous. A sure future single. A perfect comeback. Depression stemming from other sources had caused most of the other songs they came up with to be like little rock-wrapped elegies, and also resulted in him recording the music and vocals for most of them separately, another change—because he insisted on lying on the floor to sing. He didn’t have the drive to stand, despite any amount of drugs he ingested during the day, and even with being quite pleased with most of the stuff they were creating. What was the point in standing when you could lie down?

There must have been some reason, other than managerial obligation, that John was still skulking around the way he was.

Just to throw a spanner into his works, or to stop himself from doing something stupid, Elton decided to finally call Warren. He must have left it long enough now to stop himself from seeming as desperate as he was. He didn’t know what the point of it was going to be—just to talk, plan to meet up again, to fuck? Any, or all, would be desirable.

“Yellow?”

Of course he was the type to say that instead of hello.

“Warren.” He heard him smile.

“Who’s that? Elton?”

“Yeah,” Elton said.

“You sure took your time, I thought you’d forgotten me. I could’ve been dead and buried and you wouldn’t have known!”

“A lot has happened. I’m sorry. When I see you, I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Yeah, you better.”

“Definitely didn’t forget about you.” Quite the contrary. He should ask him how he was doing first, before anything else. Yes. “How—”

“Whereabouts are you?” Warren asked. “Are you anywhere near Julie’s?”

“You’re talking about your sister.”

“Yes, my sister.”

Elton laughed. “She said she hates people calling her that.”

“Well, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, can it?”

“Suppose not. I can be at Julie’s… What for?”

“Just come.”

Elton arrived at Julianna’s flat primed and ready. Clean-shaven and bathed. In a black, white, and grey pinstriped suit and matching baker boy hat, gifting along a bottle of gin. He’d swapped the spectacles for contacts. Not because he thought it improved his appearance any, but mostly because he was growing tired of that being his signature thing. He wanted to shake things up. Try a hand at dropping one of the gimmicks. Another change.

He jittered like a nervous teen, adjusting his collar, until the door opened.

“Ah! You aren’t wearing glasses!”

“Yeah.” Elton touched the short brim of his hat, then pulled it down a little further. “Trying something new.”

“I like it.” Warren stepped back, his eyes dropped then rose, then smiled. “I’ve never noticed the lovely long eyelashes you’ve got, you’ve been hiding them.”

Heat flooded his cheeks. “Shucks, thank you.”

“Serious. Some girls would kill for those, you know. I would, too. Little freckles on you, as well. Anyway, come in, come in!”

Elton walked inside the dimly lit flat, and when Warren shut the door, it was even more subdued. There weren’t any visible candles, but the room had that sort of glow about it, coming from a supposed tube light behind the sofa.

“Where’s Julianna?” Elton asked, still taking in his surroundings.

“Belgium,” Warren said. Elton snapped his head around to look at him dubiously. “No, but she is out of the country. Her and Sam made off to Jamaica.”

“Does she know you’re hijacking her place?”

Warren lifted the lighting a smidge, delicately twisting the dimmer. “She knows I’m here, don’t worry.”

Elton sat down on the plush velvet sofa he remembered sitting on the last time he’d been there, and Warren drifted closer. Elton made a shy flourish of the bottle in his hand.

“Oh, you brought me a present! How very thoughtful of you.”

“Well, I kind of thought we could share it now.”

“So did I.”

Warren floated down next to him and the skirt he was wearing billowed like a parachute, the sound it made filled the quiet room. He touched his fingertips to Elton’s knee for a very short time before he shifted it to make light of the bottle of wine and two glasses already sitting on the miniature oval table to his right.

“We’ve got enough to last the night,” he said, then he took the gin from Elton and cracked the cap off.

“You invited me here for a drink?”

“Yeah.” Warren poured into the glasses of ice until they were overfull. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Of course, sounds good to me. More than good. Exactly what I was hoping for. We having our gin straight?”

“Yeah, can’t beat a bit of neat gin. Well, as long as it’s good quality, and lucky for us, this stuff is.”

After plenty of glasses of straight gin, they were both particularly sozzled, particularly Warren. His composure, eyes, and tactility had intensified in a way that hindered any of his previous fine-tuned subtlety: the fervent sliding of his hands on Elton’s thighs, pushing back his blazer, palming at him through his trousers, then his lips’ prolonged contact with his.

Elton opened his eyes, and Warren did the same.

“What?”

“I don’t know if we should… do this, on your sister’s sofa.”

“Who cares? She won’t find out, will she?”

Elton shook his head. “Guess not. And what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

“And if you clench your hips when I cum, there won’t be a mess anyway. Waddle into the bathroom.”

“Bloody hell.” Elton kissed him again, both laughing, fingers intertwining with his apple-blonde hair. “Right, so who’s fucking who? Or has what you said already told me?”

“Oh, gentleman.”

“Naturally.”

“Never been asked that before.”

“Me either, frankly,” Elton said. “Well, I’d asked John once, and he quickly vetoed me fucking him, so.”

“Is he the only man you’ve ever been with?”

Elton nodded. “Only person.”

Warren held his face sweetly. “Well, I fucked you in Quicksand, so, if you want, you can fuck me this time.”

“Okay.” He snorted. “The chivalry!”

“Yeah. Only fair, isn’t it, kitten?”

+

That night and the couple that followed were magnetic.

They went to a strip club one night. Elton had never heard of or been to this one before. It was understandably secluded, but inside was full of life. ‘Love Is the Drug’ by Roxy Music was pumping through the veins of the place.

“Never been here before.”

“You haven’t?”

Elton shook his head, sipping at the rich peach cocktail Warren had bought him.

“I thought you’d be all in the know about this place!” Warren said.

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Elton swivelled after a pair of shirtless and tan-skinned men walking by. He turned back, and Warren pushed his eyebrows upwards. “They’re all gorgeous in here, aren’t they?”

“ _Mm-hm,_ ” Warren hummed in an accentuated manner through his straw. “And you can look _and_ touch, you know.”

“Yeah? I feel a bit embarrassed… that they’re even getting to look at me.”

Warren crouched a little, squinting one eye shut in an attempt to look up his nose. “Are you sure you’ve taken any cocaine tonight? You’re lacking in the usual confidence boost it’s supposed to induce.”

“Shut up, look at me…”

“No.” Warren swung up a finger and petted it against Elton’s nose. “Enough. You were right the first time, treasure, they’re _getting_ to look at you. They should be the ones paying. We’ve got to wash this self-deprecation out of your hair! Tell you what we’re both gonna do, we’re gonna get a big bottle of champagne,” he turned to the VIP section half-naked men were filtering into, “and we are gonna have the best night ever! Who knows, you might even get a free lap dance later.”

“They do that?”

Warren threw his head right back, squawking with laughter. He put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re fucking thicker than me! No, not here.”

Elton knew Warren didn’t mean that maliciously, but it still lit a small flicker of doubt.

“Oh, I get what you mean,” he said.

Warren took his hand. “Don’t you go taking that personally. It was a joke, but I can see it in your little eyes…”

Elton looked away, humiliation clawing at his insides. “I’m not.”

“ _Nobody’s_ thicker than me,” Warren swore, steering them back towards the bar, and pulling crumpled notes from his satin trousers. “Here, let’s loosen up a little more. Let’s go crazy. Fuck the champagne. Have you ever had absinthe?”

“Don’t think so.”

“You haven’t, then. You’d know. My God, have you done anything?” He put a hand to Elton’s chest. “Kidding. Now, it makes some people be sick. Just a warning.”

“Oh, delightful.”

“Ah-ah! But _don’t_ let that put you off.” He ordered it.

“It hasn’t, that’s my favourite pastime. Love being sick.”

“Ssh! If I know anything about you, it’s that you are gonna _love_ it. I know the secret to it, you won’t be sick. Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

Warren leaned in close. “The tip is, after, you breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. Simple, right? Stops the vapour or whatever the fuck lingering in your mouth and throat, and stops you from being sick. Trust me!”

And loosen up they did. He wasn’t sick. He did love it. But the rest of the night was a blur. The only thing he could remember was that back at Julianna’s, a free dance he did get.

He was sure they weren’t falling in love, but he was definitely falling in something. He already had. He wasn’t sure what.

+

John called eventually, informing him of a rendezvous in Windsor Great Park for a photoshoot—something had to spoil it. He must’ve rang around everyone he knew trying to find out where he’d gone, so Elton preened knowing he’d at least caused him some form of hassle.

Elton hopped out of Pete’s car and clicked up the Long Path in a top hat, high-heeled boots, a long black coat, cane in hand.

“Right, I’m here, what do I need to do now? Make it quick.”

“What’s up with that look?” quipped one of the men behind a camera.

“He’s an idiot,” explained John. He moved closer to Elton, prodded his chest. “We need an album cover. Today. What are you doing?”

“I know that. What’s wrong with the outfit?” Elton asked, holding a leg out, balancing his heel on the gravel. “Let’s work.”

“You look like a Victorian,” said the same photographer, “at a funeral.”

Elton lifted one shoulder, then set the cane forward, resting on it. “Maybe I’m mourning.”

John pointed to the side. “Stand over there.”

“You aren’t the director.”

“No, I’m your manager.”

Elton blinked three times quickly, then turned his attention to the photographer. “Where do _you_ want me?”

After the apparently bleak photoshoot, Elton collected clothes from his house, then retreated to Julianna’s place, to Warren.

They talked, listened to records, and Elton learned more of Warren’s enthusiasm for Diana Ross and anything Motown. They shared more alcohol, kisses, got drunk, had sex. That was it. And there was nothing better.

Warren dipped into a crevice of the sofa, between their bodies, pulled out a little plastic sachet full of multi-coloured chalky clumps, and dipped his lithe fingers inside. He threw one into his mouth before lifting the wine bottle, chugging a mouthful, then kissing him.

“Do you want some?”

“What is it?” Elton looked at the baggie nestled between them. “Ecstasy?”

Warren hummed his answer against his mouth, hot vibrations. “Do you want some?”

“It’s not really my drug of choice.”

“It’s mine.” Warren cupped his face. “Sooo?”

“Yeah, go on. I’ll have some.”

Warren dropped a heart-shaped pill into his palm with a few extra crumbs. Elton threw the lot back with a sip of wine and it didn’t take long for the circuits to fire up, creating that airy heightening of _everything._ They kissed again, drank, had more sex, then a little more ecstacy, the combination of all leading them to be garrulously pissed.

“Do you wanna come with me to a party Michael Jackson’s having in New York?”

Elton snorted, rolling over so that they were facing each other again. “You don’t know Michael Jackson.”

“I do too.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Do you want to come or not?” Warren said, smoothing his hand across Elton’s hairy chest. “You’ll soon find out, won’t you.”

“How do you know him?”

“Andreas knows him. Julie does, too.”

“Julianna knows him. How does she know him?” Elton wheezed a laugh at himself. “I’ve no idea, what does she do again?”

“Do you know anything about your friends?”

“Yes, she’s my friend, technically, but she was John’s first. I never really got to know her all that well, it was… And if she ever did tell me what she did, I was probably too high or drunk to retain it.”

“Probably both.”

“Probably.”

“She does music engineering shit,” Warren informed, then mischievously quizzed: “Do you know what Sam does?”

Elton pretended to think. He knew Sam did something along those same lines, but couldn’t put his finger right on it.

“He does the same thing, he’s her assistant,” Warren said. “Not like a producer, they just set up recording rooms and all that shit.”

“The technical shit.” Elton reached backwards for his glass, and held it out. “Hit me.”

“The boring shit,” Warren said, sloshing in more wine.

Elton’s voice lost most of its strength as he asked, “What I do’s not boring, is it?”

“Definitely not.” Warren set a hand back on his cheek, then trailed a finger up and down the length of his jaw, gasping quietly, and his black-pooled blue eyes met his. “Your skin’s so smooth.”

Elton kissed him. “So’s yours.”

“But yours is really soft. Like, really. _Wow._ You’re so…” _I’m so what?_ Warren seemed to get lost, then he re-caught his train of thought. “Do you wanna come?”

“Again, so soon? Or to Michael Jackson’s party?”

“The party.”

“Yeah.” Elton moved a hand onto Warren’s satin trousers that were buried below their naked bodies, almost moaning at the supple fabric’s texture. “What’s Michael’s party for?”

“He’s putting out an album in the new year. Think the party’s in January.”

Warren’s hair looked soft, too. Elton twirled a strand of his fringe. “Solo album?” 

“Yeah. He’s done one before, but he was, like, twelve.”

“I know.”

Warren adjusted his body, shifting closer, bringing electricity with him. It riddled Elton’s skin. Warren brushed his fingers gently through the front of Elton’s hair. Well, what there was of it. “Don’t tell anyone. No one’s supposed to know.”

He should have been embarrassed by Warren doing that, but he wasn’t.

“I won’t,” he said. “It’s a bad sign if you know, though, I’m sure. You’ve already went and told me.”

“Yes, but I said no one’s supposed to know. You aren’t a no one, are you?”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, you know what I meant.”

Elton kissed him, holding tight onto his upper arm. “So Julianna’s _invited_ to this shindig, and you’re just riding along on her coattails?”

Warren scrunched his nose and gently smacked his chest. “Piss off.”

“Kind of like how you’re mooching her flat right now. You know, you’re really good at that, as well as your other party trick. You should get a job in one of those carnival stalls where they swindle people. You’d make a fuck load of money.”

“You are on thin fucking ice if you’re wanting to jump on her coattails, too.”

They laughed and kissed again.

“Poor Julianna,” Elton said, between kissing. “She has no idea what’s happening to her lovely sofa.”

“Well, it’s either that or their bed. Which one would you feel more sorry for?”

“Fair. I feel like I’m grinding my teeth, am I grinding my teeth?”

Warren’s eyes studied his mouth.

“Maybe… just a bit,” he clarified, then kissed him, as if that was a cure. “Here.”

+

He spent the next week there, both sleeping in Julianna and Sam’s sorry bed. He would’ve spent longer, except John called yet again.

Warren did a spectacular roll onto his side, fingers pushed into his unruly mop of hair.

“Eugh. What’s he want now?”

“My new album, he’s wanting me to do promotional stuff for it.” Elton fixed the hem of his blazer, then stepped into his too-big trousers, pulling the extra fabric forward. “I don’t know, I wasn’t listening—like, a music video or something. I’ll go and get it over with, then I’ll come back. Do you have a belt I could borrow?”

Warren nodded. “Can I come?”

Elton bit back a smug smile. “‘Course you can, darling.”

Warren went along with them to a shoot for a music video for [‘Ego’](https://youtu.be/s7Qxm9n54iU). He didn’t let him come _solely_ to rub it in John’s face. John was completely apathetic anyway.

Elton asked Warren if he wanted to star in it, but he politely and very unexpectedly turned it down and hung around on the other side of the cameras instead.

The video consisted of pre-recorded snippets of a child acting as young Elton spliced with shots of current Elton on a chair looking less than impressed while he filed non-existent nails, and another scene with his name in lights behind him while he sang and made overly expressive faces at the camera. That was the previously-established and desired effect, but he and Warren had came up with the genius and hilarious idea to take an E in the car on the way there. Warren being there, also higher than a kite, also had a hand in egging him on and making it even more heightened.

He hoped Bernie would see it. Hoped he could stray from his farm long enough to sit down in front of the TV to watch it. That’d show him.

Elton was now the one to not be in his own house these days. He wondered if John was still going there, without his permission, but did not care enough to kick up a fuss over it anymore.

He’d found someone else, too. And he was so much more fun to be around. More than that, he was exhilarating to be around. He was exciting, he was carefree, uninhibited, everything Elton wanted to be and more. He didn’t tell him what he could and couldn’t do. He was genuinely pleasant to be around, a decent person, and that shouldn’t have been a hard standard to meet, but it was, and it was refreshing. And Warren seemed to enjoy being in his company. Plus, the drugs were more constant than fresh water. Elton had everything he wanted. Everything he needed.

+

A year later, the album had come out. It didn’t do the best, but Elton liked the album enough to not care too much.

The phone rang, and Elton almost broke his neck scrambling out of Julianna’s bed to answer it, thinking it could’ve been Bernie, before he realised Bernie had no idea where he was. Nor did he care. He had to get out of thinking about and hoping for him.

The momentum fell as he put his hand on the receiver. He supposed he could answer it anyway.

“Hello?” he yawned.

“Hello. Is this Elton John?”

He was surprised, mistrustful. He pressed the receiver hard against his ear. “Who is this? How’d you get this number?”

“I was looking to get your two cents on Keith Moon’s death.”

“What?” Elton barked a hoarse laugh. “Keith Moon’s not dead, you idiot, who is this?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard, then? He died last night, drug overdose.”

The way the man had said the cause sounded like a medieval hex. Elton was stunned into open-mouthed silence.

“Are you there? Hello? Do you have anything to say about it?”

“I do, actually,” Elton said after a beat. “You want my two cents? I’ll give you my two fucking cents, go fuck yourself—”

He whacked the phone back, cutting himself off from giving an earful. He had to do it a few times, repeated chiming, before it finally resided in the hook.

Elton let Warren know, and they both sat on the bed. They didn’t discuss it, and neither cried, it was just shocking.

Julianna had long since returned from her holiday. But he hadn’t run into her yet. He and Warren worked around her very carefully when she was there. Right now, thankfully, she and Sam were on another trip.

“When does Julianna come back?”

Something about that caught Warren off guard; his breath hitched, but he disguised it well, leaning back against him. “Few days.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted in this chapter was The Entertainer by Billy Joel  
> I don't own it.  
> The link to the 'Ego' video is, as always, only for entertainment/interactive purposes. It's in no way affiliated with me or this story. Watching it isn't even required, it's just for fun.


	17. You Got the Speed, Baby, I Got the Need

+

Keith had died from an overdose of a sedative used for curbing the craving of alcohol. That made it even more depressing. He was trying to help himself, and ended up dying trying. As the saying went, perhaps only the good died young. That was what rang in Elton’s head, that was how he dulled the thought of how tragic Keith’s demise was. Like Marc before him, he was so young. Another good person so undeserving. He was a headcase, but a gem all the same. As upfront as they came. Elton couldn’t bear going to his funeral either. Or his grave. Their remains resided in the same cemetery.

Another common saying was that these things usually came about in threes. And if the first maxim had any sort of truth to it, maybe it meant that Elton would be able to dodge that bullet.

Not that his drug use was anything to be concerned about.

He went back home the day before Julianna was due to arrive, in pursuit of John, to corner and cross-examine him over who gave the jackass journalist his whereabouts. With a grunt, he opened the front door, pushing it the rest of the way with his shoulder.

He was there, taking up his favourite spot in front of the television, drink in hand, like a Bond villain awaiting his unforeseen arrival.

“Ah, look who it is.”

“Look who it is,” Elton mimicked him, then set his bag to the floor, and asked: “Who says you can be here when I’m not?”

“We’ve already discussed this, Elton, I’m not going over what I already said.”

“Sure, but you don’t live here anymore.”

“Neither do you.”

“Well, you can’t drink my alcohol. What’s mine is no longer yours. Thought we discussed that, too.”

John threw back the last of what was in his glass in defiance, making a satisfied emission after.

Elton’s face flamed with irritation. “Did you give some shitty journalist Warren’s number?”

“Hm?” John poured himself some more. “What makes you think that?”

“Asshole. Don’t play stupid with me.”

“He was asking for you. I’m not you.”

“So that entitles you to giving out Warren’s number? To a fucking tabloid? Makes perfect sense, thank you.”

“It didn’t kill you, did it? Plus, it’s Julianna’s number. Idiot.”

“I don’t care, John, you don’t have the right to do that. Do you know what he was calling to ask me about?”

John flashed a knowing and uncaring smirk through the glass.

“Wasn’t a very respectful thing to do, was it?” Elton said, lifting his bag and moving to the stairs. “You’re a _real_ piece of shit.”

“Going to write in your diary?”

Elton froze. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Elton turned back to face him.

“Oh, dear,” John said. “You think I didn’t know about all your little diaries?”

All the pages he’d written in the last few years leafed through his mind at top speed.

“I’ve read them all, over the years,” John said casually, clicking his nail against the glass. “But the latest one… that one was particularly interesting. Haven’t read all of it yet, but so far, I’d say it’s one of your best, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Elton slammed the bag back to the floor, teeth gritted. “Why are you so oblivious? _Why_ have you not learned that you’re not fucking entitled to everything? You bastard. You had _no_ right to do that.”

John smiled again, relishing in what he was causing. “Your fault for leaving it lying about.” He got up and stalked over, glass-holding hand sparing a few fingers to poke his chest lightly. “You know, you’ve clearly gotten even more big-headed since losing a _tiny_ bit of weight and starting this phony, little fling of yours… but you might still want to watch what you say and do. Because I could ruin a lot of things for you. A lot quicker than the natural course of things will.”

Elton had no doubt he’d read every last line. And that meant he had enough ammunition to kill a lot of things. He could tell Warren about Bernie. He could tell Bernie about Bernie. Not that that would spoil things between them anymore, that was already dead, it would just be humiliating.

“You think you’re all that ‘cause you’ve got a little 25-year-old running after you,” John crooned. “But once he starts to see the real you, he’ll be gone before you know it. Then what will you do? Wonder what he’d think if he found out about your little pinings for a certain B-E-R-N-I-E.”

Elton curled his hands into harsh fists. “He wouldn’t give a shit.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t want _me_ finding out about them. And do you know him at all? I think he would care, maybe even too much.”

“ _We_ aren’t in a relationship, like you and I apparently were. But even if we were, Bernie’s gone, so none of that shit even matters.”

“Oh. So, you won’t mind if I tell him?”

Elton swallowed noisily. “Don’t.”

The subtle plea seemed to gratify John in a way that was close to sexual. His grin magnified. “Well, then. Watch your mouth.”

John seemed to get off on meddling in things. That much had always been pretty clear, but it was even more transparent when you’d manually removed your John-bought, rose-coloured glasses.

+

Elton was unable to content himself in bed. He wanted to call Warren. Not just for wanting to talk to him, but to attempt to gauge whether or not John had already told him something he shouldn’t. He knew they weren’t in a relationship, he was aware that Warren probably seen it as nothing more than a fling. But he didn’t want to prematurely spoil something as temporary as that either, because then he’d really be left with nothing. He didn’t want to eliminate the slight chance that it could turn into more.

The next day, he lifted the phone and fished out his journal that had the number copied into it.

He dialed. The wait was nervous.

“Hello?”

“Julianna?”

“Elton! Oh my God, how are you?”

“I’m swell, darling, uh, what about yourself?”

“Great, yeah… Sam and I just got back from holiday.”

“Oh, blimey, anywhere nice?” He wasn’t sure if he had to play dumb or not.

“We were in Jamaica for a few weeks last year, so we headed back! It was so beautiful, you should see the water there. Eugh, it was amazing. Next time, you should come with us.”

“There’s already another next time?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Must’ve been good.”

“It really was. Sorry—rambling—did you call about anything in particular?”

“Not really… Do you know if, uh, Warren’s about?”

“Warren?” Julianna said. “He’s not here at the moment, but… is it something I could pass along? Or will I get him to call you back when he gets in? If that sounds better.”

“He’s staying with you for a bit, is he?”

Julianna laughed. “He lives with me!”

“He does?”

“Yeah! He must’ve been out that last time you were here, not unlike him to be out. But yeah, he lives here, with me and Sam. Little spare room, bless him.”

“Didn’t know that,” Elton said, as wires in his brain connected. The phone number Warren had given him, was this one. Julianna’s. Of course. Like John said. How could he not have noticed? “Ask him to give me a call back then, would you?”

“No problem.”

Warren pretending to be crashing at her place rather than admit to lodging there was a possible sign of him wanting to convey an impressive narrative, meaning he might have been as wrapped up in what they’d started as Elton was, with similar intentions.

Warren called back a few hours later.

“I must really be a fucking ditz,” Elton said. “I didn’t even realise the number you’d given me was hers.”

Warren laughed loudly.

“She’d given me her number once before, and I didn’t even put the two together. Why’d you do that?”

“I suppose I didn’t want you knowing I sleep in a broom cupboard.”

“Piss off, your sister doesn’t have you sleeping in a broom cupboard.”

“Not literally,” Warren allowed, “but it is very small… I wanted you to think I was cool, allude to the mystique.”

One point to the theory.

“I wouldn’t have had any problem with a box bedroom,” Elton said. “I already thought you were cool, a small bedroom wasn’t going to revoke that.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, but I’m not sure claiming yourself as mysterious holds up. I _think_ that might cancel itself out, actually, let me check…”

They made arrangements to spend an amount of days at Julianna’s, then switch and bring things back to Elton’s, so they didn’t always have to fuck in a broom closet. It was a relatively risky move, but if push came to shove, he could always keep John at bay by calling the cops. 

+

In 1979, John was sure to put him to work like a horse, and Elton didn’t drag his heels because the mundaneness of his everyday life was starting to become almost unbearable, so he kind of welcomed a goal, something to do. He still didn’t want to do elaborate tours, but was open to small ones, and recording more albums.

The only appealing aspect of life anymore was Warren and the drug-and-alcohol-sprees they shared. He still used cocaine on the regular on his own, and probably drank about a gallon a day on his own. But it wasn’t really a fun thing to do on your own. It was just a way to get by.

The next event on the cards was Michael Jackson’s party in New York. It was being held in a luxurious ballroom named The Flora. Warren was adamant they had no need to worry about somewhere to stay while they were there, because there was a penthouse not far from the venue that he had access to. With Warren’s track record, Elton probably should have been at least mildly dubious, but he went along with it anyway. What would be the worst that could happen? They’d just have to check into a hotel.

Warren had also promised that he’d passed on to Michael (through Julianna) that Elton was tagging along. Michael would likely be just fine about it; they’d met a few times, and he was also renowned for being a sweetheart.

The driver that brought them from the airport took their few bags somewhere, so that at least seemed promising, and Warren and Elton got another lift to the party with Julianna and Sam.

The spot and occasion called for high fashion. Elton donned a dignified black suit with a crisp white finish lacing the rim of the cuffs and lapels, complete with a cap of similar design. Warren was wearing flared trousers pinned with crystals, and a button-up shirt that had ‘ALL’ on one side and ‘GOOD’ on the other. It was tied at the front, showing off his slim physique.

Even though Elton had lost commendable weight by now, a look like that was a far cry from his near fashion future. He could stomach showing a little chest or wearing a skimpy pair of shorts, but that was as far as it went. As far as it could ever go, probably.

They arrived at the ballroom a little later than intended, but successfully infiltrated the lively crowd. Even though The Flora was a ballroom and not a club, it was New York’s answer to Quicksand. Not for its reputation or that of its clientele, but solely for its appearance: faux vines wrapping the stately pillars, climbing up to a translucent lime orb centred in the high ceiling, soaking the atmosphere green. Music was grooving in the air.

They’d already taken hits of their favoured poisons before arriving, but each had a stash stored away for whenever the inevitable pit-stop would be needed.

They talked for a while with passing faces: Stevie Wonder, even Marlon Brando. Warren was hoping desperately for even a glimpse of Diana Ross. Eventually they came across Paul McCartney and George Harrison, who said that John and Ringo would have been there except they were preoccupied with other commitments. John was in Japan, Ringo was off being Ringo, was how George put it. They briefly touched on the subject of Bolan and Moon’s passings, but moved on not wanting to dampen the spirit of the night. Though, everyone collectively agreed they were probably hanging around somewhere… in spirit.

Michael took to the stage with a thunderous cheer following him, not stopping even when he put the microphone to his mouth in an attempt to speak. Everybody shouted and clapped louder, and he gave a humbled laugh. The music lowered in time for him.

“Thank you. Thank you all so much… for everything.”

Julianna and Warren, almost as if they’d choreographed it, did the same thing: bobbing up on their toes and giving a resounding whistle past their fingers.

Michael gave a short and sweet thank you speech for the opportunity, and the support for the new album, then quickly made his way off the stage to start mingling with people.

Elton watched him make his way through the crowd, talking and shaking hands, laughing and hugging, then he looked his way. He gave a massive TV show smile, displaying his pretty pearly whites. He finished the conversation he was having before making his way over.

“Elton. I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” he said excitedly. They shook hands, then hugged quickly. “It’s nice to see you.”

Elton passed a look to Julianna who didn’t react, then to Warren, who did. _That little sneaky bastard._

“Yeah, well, you know me,” Elton said, “I love gatecrashing.”

“No, no,” Michael said. “Not at all, you’re more than welcome.”

“Thank you.”

Michael exchanged very pleasant pleasantries with Sam and Julianna, giving them both hugs.

“Warren, right?” he said through another award-winning smile, lifting a finger and a brow. “You’re Julianna’s brother.”

“Told you he knew me,” Warren said in a sleek exchange past Elton’s ear as he stepped closer.

“Yet you never told him I was coming,” Elton grumbled.

“That’s right,” Warren replied to Michael, “we’ve met a few times before.”

“We have,” Michael confirmed, then they hugged. “I’m so grateful you’re all here, really. I hope you have a great night.”

He was about to bid the exchange farewell and start a new one with the people eagerly waiting their turn, when Elton said: “Last time I seen you, you were a little kid.”

Michael hunched forward, expressively answering, “Pardon?” with a palm cupped around his ear.

Elton jerked his head to the side, to a spot below the overhanging balcony on the perimeter. The music would be a little less overpowering there.

Michael understood and held up his hand to the people who were dying to have a conversation of their own with him, then followed Elton across the floor.

“Sorry. What’d you say?”

“I said the last time I saw you was when you were little.”

“That’s not true,” Michael laughed.

“Well, fourteen or something.”

“No! I seen you a few years ago. At a club here in New York, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” That was right. “My memory’s getting terrible—old age.” Elton puffed his cheeks out with air. “You’ve been at this a mighty long time.”

“I have, but you know, I love it so much…” Michael held his lower lip inward and gave a wistful shake of his head. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“I admire that, but it’s bound to be rough at times. You’ve already been doing this longer than me.”

“Oh.” Michael made a face, eyes widened. “Of course.” His bright expression returned and he gave a slight laugh, looking down. “Of course, but it comes with it, unfortunately. Just comes with it. Do you know, when my brothers and I were touring together, fans would grab us, pull at us, our hair, our clothes… trying to get a piece to keep. Which I can appreciate, you know, I know what it’s like to be a fan, wanting to get a piece of the magic. But it also just shows you. When you’re famous, even when you’re a kid, people seem to forget that you’re a person. It gets lost in all that. But I can deal with any of the hardships like that, bad press— anything, as long as what I’m doing continues to make people happy. As long as that’s the case, then the bad stuff doesn’t really matter.”

Elton returned with an according nod. “I like that. That’s a good way to be.”

“I like to think so. You wanna know something else?”

This time Elton leaned in closer.

“You have to stay true,” Michael said earnestly. “You’ve gotta. To yourself, more than anything, and to your art. Also to your loved ones. Those you love and who love you: your fans, of course, your friends… Family. As long as they and you know who you are, and what your art is all about, then you can conquer anything. Anyone else? Doesn’t matter.”

They talked for a while longer, discussing the previous decade and old musicians and performers they both liked, until Michael excused himself because he was due a performance of his full album. He paddled back through the wall of people and the thought that he was made for this life crossed Elton’s mind. He was a real natural, much more than even he was. And not only that, he had so much potential. There was so much more he had to give.

Michael took to the stage like a duck to water. After introducing what he was about to gift them all and the band kicked into the first beats, he shed his shy demeanour like a downy plumage, and exploded with a captivating aura of passion, purpose, exuberance. The things he said, about the bad coming with the good, sank back into Elton’s thoughts. Michael was destined to do what he was doing, and for a long time. And he was only getting started. It was haunting in a way. He was so sweet. Perhaps he didn’t deserve that life at all.

The other things he said, about being true, stuck with him, too. Possibly even more.

Uplifted, Elton stood, entranced, watching him for a while. When he and his backing singers started serenading a swooning girl in the front with a song called ‘It’s the Falling in Love,’ Warren tapped Elton’s shoulder, and he spun around.

Warren was dancing, shimmying his shoulders as he rhythmically tapped his finger to the tip of his nose. What he was hinting at was obvious, and also equally as craved by Elton. They devised a one-way, two-man conga line towards the bathroom, singing along the way. Warren seemed to know most of the lyrics, whereas this was Elton’s first time hearing the song, so he was playing a game called take note of the chorus, and the rest was guesswork.

They each shared a miniature spoon that hung around Warren’s neck to key their preferred white powder into their nostrils, probably sharing a few mixed traces, then they moved back into the pulsing room. They danced with Julianna and Sam, then occasionally scurried off to the shade of the bathroom to laugh and up their high.

It was fun, until it wasn’t.

Warren had reached a point where his eyes were vacant and half-shutting as he slurred and made nonsense pulp out of his words. He was sporadically making an array of loopy, gurning facial expressions in between his ‘words’. Elton was equally as high as he was, though watching these adverse effects swatching over Warren’s face troubled him.

“Are you feeling okay?” Elton asked.

“I’m great!” Warren declared, staggering on the spot. “Oh, I’m so great. Aha-haha-hahaaa…”

“Good. Just making sure.” Warren fell into him like a skinny tree, wobbling to keep himself from falling to the floor. Elton held him upright. “Woah, be careful.”

“I am careful! Aren’t I always careful?”

Elton did not let go. He looked around for a sign of the others returning. No hope. “Okay. Well, try to steady yourself,” he told him. “You’re falling about the place. I don’t want you going on your mouth and nose.”

“I’m fine! I won’t fall.” Still teetering, he spilled some liquor down his top. “Whoops.” Then his eyes lit far brighter than they had been all night. “Do you think Diana’s here? I bet she is. Oh, my God. I _bet_ she is! Let’s go and find her.”

Elton, wired and on a similar plane of existence, anxiously followed him into the depths of the crowd.

Warren ambled, pushing people out of the way, almost toppling their drinks, and nearly spilling his own again more than once. He was getting some dirty looks. Elton, finally, was overcome with dread.

“Come on, enough,” Elton pleaded. “You can’t go around like this, Warren. You’ll have us thrown out on our asses.”

“Who says? I’m _trying_ to find Diana Ross. She’s bound to be here.” He peered around skittishly, and then he erupted, flinging out an arm to point. “Oh, look! There she is! There she is, Elton. Oh my goodness! Oh my— I’m going up to her.”

And there she was, in all her glory. And, thankfully, blissfully unaware of her ecstatic fan.

Like he was about to perform an act of heroism, Warren downed his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, skewing his lipstick, before he made his first step her way.

Blood-curdling images floated before Elton’s eyes of what would occur if he allowed such a thing to happen.

“No.” Elton lunged and grabbed his arm, hoisting him back with every fibre of strength he had.

“Let go!” Warren laughed, childishly trying to wrestle away. “I have to go!”

Elton tightened his grip. “No, Warren, it’s for your own good. I can’t let you. You can’t meet her like this, I promise you. You’ll thank me.”

“I won’t!”

“No. You can’t meet her.” Now, Elton pointed. “Look, she’s busy. She is, she’s far too busy. You don’t want to interrupt her and annoy her, do you?”

“Okay,” Warren grumbled.

“Promise me you won’t go over there. If I let go, you better not head straight over there.”

“I promise.”

 _“I’ll_ get you to meet her another time. Okay? Another time, when you’re not so fucking pissed. I promise _you_ that. I really do promise.”

For the rest of the night, Elton followed him around wherever he went in an attempt to ground him, steer him from making a complete fool of himself.

Somehow, they managed to stay until the party had finished. Some crawled off to other watering holes, but Julianna, once she saw the state of Warren, figured the best bet would be to call it a night. They went out onto the still-living street and stood under the amber glow of a street light.

“Are you two alright?” Julianna asked, tucking her wind-swept hair around her ear. “Getting back to Andreas’ place, I mean.”

Ah. The penthouse belonged to that guy.

“You know how to get there, don’t you?” Elton said, and gave Warren a nudge with his elbow.

Warren was still tilting side-to-side like his back had no bones. “Yeah! We’ll make it, no problem. No problem. Don’t even worry.”

Julianna looked between them both apprehensively. “We’re staying just over there.” She pointed back to the sophisticated apartment building behind her with keys clasped in her hand, and she was talking directly to Elton. “You guys can come with us if you want.”

“No, we’ll be fine,” said Warren. He slung his arm around Elton’s, and Elton pinned it tight. “We’ll walk down that way and get a cab.”

He wasn’t referencing any way in particular, but Elton was sure if they found a cab, which they would, the driver would know where to take them if Warren could recite the address.

Julianna seemed to disregard what he said, still looking at Elton for a response.

“Yeah, we’ll do that,” Elton said, making sure he had a secure grip on Warren and giving Julianna a look he hoped told her he’d make sure he was okay. “And if things go tits up, we’ll come back to you. I can remember where you are.”

Julianna reluctantly nodded at that. “Alright, then.”

“Catch you guys later,” Sam said.

Sam fixed his arm over Julianna’s fur-clad shoulders and they both looked behind as they turned to walk down the path, shadows stretching before them. Julianna looked the most concerned out of the pair, but they both looked uneasy.

Elton gave a perky wave, a last attempt to assure them, before he spun and clamped his hands on Warren’s shoulders.

“Alright, you. What’s the address of this place?”

Warren went bug-eyed. “I dunno.”

Elton immediately dropped any light-heartedness, losing his temper and patience with him.

“Warren!” he screamed in his face, but Warren wasn’t fazed; his body continued twisting and moving, and he laughed stupidly. Elton looked towards Julianna and Sam’s silhouettes far away, crossing the street. He turned back to Warren and grabbed his elbows instead, giving a firm shake.

Warren cackled and wailed again. “I’m joking,” he said. “I’m only joking. Here, this way.”

He grabbed Elton’s hand and swivelled on the pavement like a wayward compass, and chugged forth. Elton huffed out a breath and followed, slowly becoming engulfed with guilt for the way he had just acted. It was a lot like John, he thought, and he shuddered.

Holding Warren’s hand in the street, especially in a city he did not live in and therefore was not familiar with, touched him with a powerful dread. Warren, while quite effeminate, was clearly a man, even when he chose to wear a dress. And he wasn’t wearing one now. And Warren couldn’t put up a good fight, if the occasion should arise. He was tall, sure, but his arms were thin enough to snap like twigs. Elton, however, could attempt to do _something_ , but it probably wouldn’t be sufficient enough to save either of their lives should such stakes arise. At the same time, he couldn’t dare to let go of his hand in case he took off into the night and he lost him.

His second fear was extinguished whenever they came to an almost-derelict street corner, where a group of six men were loafing around, shouting and laughing, throwing fake punches at each other. They didn’t seem genuinely aggressive, but the sight was enough for Elton to snap his hand out of Warren’s.

Warren may have been off his nut, but he was hyperaware, and swivelled his head around. “Hey! What’d you do that for?”

Elton pretended not to notice or hear him. His main and primal focus was getting past this lot without a fuss.

“I was leading you!” Warren protested.

“Right. Sshh.”

“I’m not gonna shush.”

“Hey!”

Panic stabbed him in the gut, made his hands flush with cold. Cars swished by like UFOs, and the initial spark of interest was followed by more, and mixed with an abhorrent parade of whistling. Elton kept walking. Warren didn’t.

The men closed in on him like wild dogs, and Elton grabbed Warren’s wrist.

“Come _on_.” He bit back on raising his voice, tried to make it seem like a casual thing, but the racing anxiety made it come out urgent.

“Aw, we don’t bite,” said one of them. He sounded British, or he could have been mocking the voices he’d overheard. He had an overt gap between his two front teeth and a battered cap on his head. The rest of them were a motley crew, but they were all equally pie-eyed.

Elton offered them a brittle laugh as he continued to pull at Warren’s arm.

“What’re you two all dressed up for?” He tugged on the end of Warren’s other sleeve.

“Shit, I thought that was a chick!” erupted another.

Warren freed his limb from Elton and moved closer. “I can be whatever you want, honey.”

Another pang of fear hit Elton. “Come on, Warren, we have to go now.”

“Ooh. Warren. That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you.”

“Oi,” the definitely-British one said, pointing a finger at Elton. He seemed perplexed. “Hold on a second… Are you Elton John?”

“Who, me?” Elton squeaked.

“Yeah.” He looked around each shoulder at his cronies. “Am I going mad, or is that Elton John?”

“Not me,” Elton told them, but they were talking amongst themselves now. It would have been a perfect chance for breaking away, except Warren was trying to slip into their conversation.

“No, man, no. He just kinda looks like him,” said one.

_Kinda?_

“I’m telling you that’s him. I swear.”

Another one scoffed. “That ain’t him. Are you kidding?”

“No, dude, I’d know Elton John if I seen him. My mom loves Elton John.”

Warren turned back over his shoulder with pinned eyes and a devilish smile. He better not.

“Have you ever heard that one before?” he asked.

“I haven’t, actually,” Elton said. “But I suppose I can see where they’re coming from. Though, I would’ve thought Elton John was a bit fatter than I am.”

The men seemed to find that funny, and they closed in further.

“Where are you guys off to?” the British one said.

“Nowhere,” Elton answered, watching Warren open his mouth. “We’re just heading back home.” They seemed collectively disappointed. “Yeah. Pity, isn’t it? But, damn, are we _tired_. Yeah. Long night. Exhausted.”

His antsy demeanour would probably be giving what he was saying away as a lie if the people he was talking to weren’t too drunk to take that in.

“I love your hair,” said one of them to Warren, whose own hair was long and tattered. He teased his fingers through the ends of Warren’s frazzled strands.

“You like it?” Warren asked.

“Oh yeah.”

Another moved closer to Elton and took his hat off his head, while the rest watched on; some continued to stand while some took refuge on the kerb, one climbed on top of a garbage can.

“This is real cool,” the man said, flipping the hat over, turning it inside out and back again.

“Thanks. Yeah, it is,” Elton said, carefully watching. He didn’t mind the compliment, but he didn’t appreciate the snatching. He also didn’t want to snatch it back in fear of whatever that would possibly cause.

The guy flopped the hat on top of his own head, then turned to show it off to his friends who whooped back at him. He moved back over to rejoin them, and Elton marched after him.

“You guys should stay out and party,” the one with the newfound hat said. “We’re heading down to Barkers’, if you want to tag along.”

“Oh, no, we really mustn’t.”

“Come on.”

“No, we’d love to, really, but we can’t.”

Elton’s eyes were fixed on his hat atop the stranger’s head. He kept taking it off and flapping it around, then fixing it back onto his buzz-cut scalp, the way you casually swing around an accessory of your own if you’ve had it for years. Elton worried he was so drunk he’d forgotten he didn’t own it.

He looked at Warren, trying desperately to send some sort of brainwave to his, one that said: LET’S. GO.

Warren smiled slightly, then went to the one with the hat and plucked it off his head, dropping it onto his own. The man laughed at that, honking wheezes that made his Adam’s apple bob hard in his neck.

“Yes, we really have to go,” Warren said, linking arms with Elton. “You know, places to go, things and people to do… It was nice meeting you all.”

They peeled themselves away and went to the side of the road to cross.

The men followed.

Elton pulled his arm out from Warren’s.

“Hey, no, wait!”

“Yeah, wait a sec. We were having a nice conversation.”

They all crossed the road and Elton flailed his hand out at the next vacant taxi.

The British one stood in front of Warren, stepping in his way every time he attempted to move around him, forming a pen with his leather jacket.

The taxi slowed and pulled in.

“Come on, Warren,” Elton said, again, trying not to shout. He opened the car’s door.

“Yeah, trust me, you’re lovely,” Warren said, squirming. “But I have… I have to go.” His arms were packed tight to his chest in the small space the man left around him. He was murmuring something, and Warren looked more than uncomfortable, he looked scared.

“Please,” the guy murmured loudly. “Come back to mine.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

The fear of the taxi man saying ‘fuck this’ and driving away coupled with watching Warren’s predicament, and probably also the cocaine still rattling his central nervous system, spurred him into stepping forward, dropping his hand to the man’s shoulder, and yanking him back with force.

“Warren.” He took his hand and led him forward. “Come on.”

They bustled into the cab and shut the door, and the men outside collectively flipped a switch: yelling and saying things too angry and too slurred to properly make out.

“Can you lock the door please?” Elton asked.

The driver did so without question and slowly pulled out of the cranny. The men carried on heckling and getting close to the window, whacking their fists against it. The British one had his nose almost pressed to the glass, and while the rest of what they were yelling wasn’t clear, he distinctly and clearly growled ‘FAGGOTS’ before the car made off.

The experience remained jarring until Warren informed the taxi driver of the address they were headed to, and about five minutes passed.

“Funny how… _we’re_ faggots,” Elton said quietly. “When he was ready to kidnap you, and surely not for anything savoury.”

“Men like that,” Warren began, and shook his head slowly. “They want to fuck you until you don’t do as they ask. Then you’re dirt again.”

+

When they’d gotten back to Andreas’ penthouse, Elton wanted to try to put Warren and himself to bed, but Warren wasn’t having any of it. He wanted to continue partying, so they did. Elton did manage to get him to drink a glass of water before they picked up where they left off, which he considered a triumph. Then they drank a bottle of wine between them until the sun came up, changing the crash of their powders to that of a lucent lull of drunkenness.

The following afternoon, waking up on the longest stretch of the L-shaped sofa they’d both fallen asleep on, the dim grey-skied light coming through the wall-length windows was compassionate to Elton’s headache.

It washed over Warren’s face, colouring his already pale skin a cloudier shade, casting shadows over his worn eyes and projecting an elongated copy of his nose across his cheek. Even though he still looked tired, he somehow looked even prettier sleeping. He also looked small. It was kind of hard to imagine that this was the same person from the night before, strung out beyond words. Elton was glad to see him resting, and knew it’d do more than he could to cleanse away last night’s aftertaste.

He knew he wasn’t pretending to sleep, he could tell from the pattern of his breathing, so carefully slipped out from below him to prevent waking him, and went to the kitchen. The polished concrete floor was freezing, so he lifted and dropped his toes against it in an attempt to provoke some sort of warmth while he poured another big glass of water from the chilled jug in the fridge. He drank it down in about ten ceaseless gulps, then made another, dropping a few cubes of ice into this one. Who knew when Warren would awaken, but at least his glass would remain somewhat cool.

It felt as though he was dealing with two colliding comedowns, one from the coke and one from the alcohol. Based off previous observations, Warren’s hangover/comedown would more than likely be worse. While cocaine’s crash seemed to go harder, it appeared to take ecstasy’s longer to go home. Especially when you took as much as Warren did.

Elton sat adjacent to him on a facing armchair. The world outside the window wall carried on: cars and buses hurtling along, while pedestrians did the human equivalent.

The penthouse was nice. The lights were like lanterns, giant cocoons hanging down from the ceiling. There were loads of metal ornaments of horses and lions: some lying down, others rampant on their hind legs, always making similar gestures, even though they were kind of animals of polar opposition. The windows were so big, yet they didn’t give anything going on away to people down below. He felt at peace, but at the same time, completely alienated.

His mind wandered to John without warning. He casually wondered what he was doing, and when a likely possibility came to mind, Elton gripped the glass firmly.

He wasn’t sure why it was still pissing him off, it shouldn’t, and it was even more frustrating when he found that he was still longing for him, in some way. Because John would laugh at that. So, so fucking hard. He’d call him pathetic and he’d call him an idiot. But Elton still felt something. And it hit him with such a compact, concentrated bout of self-hatred, so strong he could physically feel and not shake it. No matter how much he had tried to train his brain into letting go of him, flushing him out, it refused to. It was still hoping for something impossible from someone who was, themself, unobtainable.

Warren woke up, maybe from the fleeting glint of sunlight that struck his eyelid. He smiled then draped his arm across his eyes.

Elton got up to set the water he was still holding down on the low round table between them. His hands had managed to melt most of the ice in that length of time.

“I got you some water,” Elton told him, going back to the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Warren said, his voice catching.

Elton brought more ice cubes over in his hand dripping, and sploshed them into the glass.

“Thank you,” Warren said again, reaching to lift it.

Elton handed it to him instead, and he smiled this time instead of saying thanks, but Elton knew it meant the same thing.

As he sat back down, Elton’s mind swerved into an even worse file that made him clench the arms of the chair white-knuckled since he was no longer carrying a glass. He hoped Warren wasn’t aware of his hackles rising, and he tried manually to disguise it, forcing his tense body to unwind.

The thought of Bernie didn’t cause as much animosity for himself as John did—though, it definitely contributed some—as it did for Bernie himself. Yes, he despised the fact he still wanted him back, someone else who fucked him over, but it made him ten times angrier to know that Bernie, _Bernie_ , his Bernie, didn’t want anything more to do with him. He didn’t care about him anymore. Somewhere down the line, he just stopped, and was fine with it. Even after everything.

Meanwhile, Elton couldn’t stop. And he wasn’t fine with it. Even after everything.


	18. Watch Me Get As High As A Heatwave, Honey

+

Elton stepped backwards off the scale with a self-satisfied grin. Weighing himself was something he purposely refrained from in the past, because he knew whatever it said would be distressing. Now that he was seeing results, he felt the desire to check in on the numerical progress, too.

127lbs was pretty good. He wasn’t sure of what he weighed before, but judging from that, he had lost a few stone, which incited an aspiration to shed more. He would’ve taken note of it in his diary, boast to the sheets, except he didn’t bring it with him to New York.

He was going to, but left it last minute. Since finding out John had stuck his nose into it, it felt different, violated. For him to add more to it, even though John wasn’t even going to be in the same country, felt offbeat. If he ever wanted to continue journalling, he’d have to get a new one and start from scratch. Another reason he hadn’t brought his old one, nor went ahead and bought that new one, was because he didn’t want Warren’s opinion. Perhaps he’d find it kooky or weird, a frivolous waste of time, as John had. He also didn’t want him reading it.

He and Warren stayed in Andreas’ place for weeks after the ‘Off the Wall’ party. Warren said they had free reign because he was busy elsewhere. “Business stuff,” he said. In Belgium, perhaps.

Elton didn’t know what they were. At this point, he was too afraid to ask.

But it became clearer every day that Warren had an issue with drugs. Not every drug, as that was rarely the case for anyone—whenever they did coke, he had a stopping point—but when it came to ecstasy, that line blurred. It maybe wasn’t an addiction, but there was definitely a problem there. A dependence wasn’t what Elton saw from him, he wasn’t doing it because he needed to, and he wasn’t doing it to deal with negativity. What Warren displayed was more so a matter of ‘what’s the point in not doing it?’

Elton never brought it up, even knowing it was true and blatantly obvious, simply because he knew how annoying it was to have someone preach about sobriety to you, regardless of if you had a problem or not. And if Elton was aware of Warren’s problem, he had to have been too. So, he kept his mouth shut and his business minded. Warren kept his nose out of Elton’s matters, so it was only the right thing to do.

During the comedown of an MDMA night—they flip-flopped between what the nucleus drug was going to be each night, as if it were a choice of film or music—they went out onto the terrace when the sparks were starting to die out, but still had some sort of hold on your brain. They huddled together on the wicker bench with a heavy blanket tucked around them to smoke a joint to take that edgy edge off. Warren said he could see silhouettes of people crowded around him, walking through each other, off the end of the balcony and through the walls, and every time he tried to look at them head on, he said he couldn’t, they’d vanish into the peripherals of his vision. He was well-aware they weren’t real, gladly, and thought it was cool.

Elton wasn’t seeing anything like that. He hadn’t even been aware that Es could make you hallucinate until that moment. It kind of made him want to. Another instance of the fear of missing out. He liked to stay connected.

When Warren started going off on a tangent about a cat he was apparently seeing on the railing, something about its neck extending ‘far too far’ and its face not looking right, Elton was staring at the stars.

He felt tired, but still high in that strange wavy way. There were blotches over his vision, colours. The delirium gave birth to the splotches; they evolved into little dragons, like how they talk about in every drug hallucination story ever told. It made him laugh because he’d always thought it had been a myth. Their wings were too-small for their bodies and shouldn’t have allowed them to fly at all, nevermind perform the somersaults that they were. Granted, their wings were beating super fast. The more he focused on one of them, another would appear somewhere else, then he’d stare at that one, and another would materialise, and so on, until there was a whole band of them, fluttering and rolling over. They didn’t have enough detail to possess any eyes, but they looked almost identical to those Moomin cartoon characters in every other aspect, apart from their tiny wings and being made from that semi-transparent, ever-changing-in-colour material that eyes made.

He couldn’t stop himself laughing at them, at the idea he was seeing something so stupid, at the entire situation, then at his whole life.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Oh.” Elton subsided his laughter and motioned to the sky with the joint he was holding, probably longer than he should have been. He handed it over. “I was just seeing little dragons.”

“Piss off, you were seeing dragons.”

“I was.” Elton faced the stars again, smiling when they were all still there. “They’re still there,” he giggled. “Look.”

“I’m not seeing anything,” Warren said, reaching to get the lighter off the table to breathe life back into the joint Elton had accidentally killed.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Warren sat back and inhaled a hot chestful of smoke. His shoulder wriggled against Elton’s as he stared at the screen of stars, as if he was trying to find or project his own set of dancing dragons among them.

“You’re not going to see them,” Elton said.

“I know that.” Warren cracked a smile, still looking. “But I’m trying to think them into life. Generate the illusion.”

“You’ll still never see the ones I’m seeing. They’re mine.”

Warren took another puff. “Tell me what they look like.”

Elton relayed their description to him, and after more squinting and staring and another joint was rolled and lit, Warren gave up on seeing them. They leaned against each other, and Warren took hold of one of his hands. It was peaceful, except for the subtle pulse of emotion that hit him and overtook his train of thought.

They were physically lying slumped into the other, yes, but perhaps if one of them moved, in a different sense, the other would also fall. He relied on Warren for a lot of things. Right now, he was depending on him for a place to live. On a less superficial level, he was also more or less his only form of companionship these days, and without seeming dramatic even to his own stream of consciousness, that made him the foundation of his whole world. And in that moment, as if electricity had transferred from Warren’s hand to his with a message, he was sure Warren felt the same way.

“I love you.”

Elton had whispered it before he had time to stop it. He took a measured breath, and against his better judgement, he looked at him.

Warren was smiling again, that small, barely-a-smile smile that he did when what he was thinking or about to say something that was exposing something.

He crept forward and slipped the joint into Elton’s hand. “And I love you.”

Elton kissed him, hand fastening around his. Warren kissed back.

He wanted to ask him, ‘Do you really love me? Like, do you really, really, really, love me?’ but he ended up feeling that was too much, too fast. Even after everything.

Instead, he went down a similar but different path entirely, asking: “What was your first impression of me?”

Warren found it funny. “Why’re you asking me that?”

“Just wanna know.” Elton flicked off the collecting ash, and put the joint back to his lips. He exhaled the smoke and added: “Did you think I was a twat, did you think I was really cool? What’d you think of me?”

“Are you asking me what I thought of you before meeting you?”

“No.”

“What I thought of you that time in Quicksand?”

Elton took his second draw. “Mm-hm.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were cool,” Warren said, almost instantly.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No.” Warren took the joint. “But I thought you were…” He smoked, looking skyward again as if going back to search his mind for the most accurate answer. He wrinkled his nose and laughed. “Okay, maybe I did think you were _cool.”_

“Knew it.”

“But I also thought you were…” A shrug. “Cute.”

“I’m cute?”

“Then you were, yeah.”

Elton exaggeratedly gasped. Even though he was sure he was joking, part of it still hit as a genuine insult. “I’m not anymore?”

“I’m only joking,” Warren said, joint hanging from his lips. “You still are, are you kidding?” He gave Elton’s cheek a pat and a gentle pinch before he reached back for the lighter. “I love that little face, but you’ve lost so much weight now, I can barely grab it.”

“But that’s better, I look good?”

“You look fucking amazing,” Warren said, and he didn’t say it in a way John would. He believed he truly thought so. He mentally kicked himself a bit for thinking of John again, even comparing the two.

“Thank you.”

“You’re still just about the cutest, sexiest little thing ever!”

“Just about?”

“Well, obviously you’re still second to me,” Warren said, cupping his hands around the end of the joint to shield it from the silent Autumn breeze, attempting for the second time to relight it. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself.”

Elton was more than happy with that.

They laughed together and finished the rest of the joint.

“What about me,” Warren said, “what was your first impression of me?”

“At Quicksand?”

“Why, did we meet somewhere else?”

“Dunno. Past lives, maybe? If they’re a thing.”

Warren extended a finger. “That’d be a good name for a club. Past Lives.” Then broke into a one-man conversation, leaning to opposing sides and lending different voices for each role. “I think we’ve met somewhere before — Oh, really? — Yeah. I do. — Oh, _really?_ — Yeah. — Oh, I know. We met in _Past Lives_.”

They both laughed again, but Elton’s mind was still lingering on how he should answer the question.

“What’d you think of me, then? What a bitch?” Warren asked.

Elton snorted. “Not how I was gonna put it, but… yeah, I didn’t think you liked me.”

Warren clutched his heart with false, maybe half-real, offence. “What?”

“You were giving me a death glare every time I looked at you! You had me thinking, ‘Now, _who_ on Earth is that?’ I thought I’d wronged you in the past or something. I was wracking my brain tryin’ to think of what I’d done to you.”

“Honey, you haven’t done anything to wrong me.”

“I know, but how was I supposed to know that at the time?”

“I wasn’t trying to stare you out… That’s just the way I look sometimes. It’s default, I need to work on it.”

“No, it’s great. I’d say it does you some favours. If anyone was thinking of fucking with you and you gave them one of those, they’d shit themselves.”

“Did you shit yourself?”

“Well, I tried to not let the eye contact last very long, you see,” Elton said. “So I don’t think it was able to fully work on me. I might’ve, a little bit, but I was so fucked up I didn’t notice.”

“Fuck off!”

“So, that was you thinking I was cool, was it?”

“Intriguing,” Warren said, “may be a better word.”

“Ooh.”

“I thought you were cute and I wanted to get talking to you, but you were so…” He curled his fist and shook it mockingly. _“Smitten_ with that total asshole, I couldn’t.”

Elton snorted again. “John?”

“Who else?”

“I thought you were friends with him.”

Warren widened his eyes. “I _knew_ him. Like I’m sure a lot of people do. But I was never his friend. I was only there that time ‘cause I was with Julianna, and she got invited. You’ll see a pattern of that. But yeah, I never had a real conversation with him, ever. Never liked him. I’m sure he never liked me either.”

“Probably right. Probably for the best, too, or he might’ve smited you as well.”

“And the rest of the time,” Warren went on, “you were sliding around getting high as fuck, I didn’t know how to swoop in. So, I left it. Me and Andreas, we went and got a few drinks, stayed for a while, then headed back to the roof.”

“Is that why you were there one minute and gone the next?”

Warren nodded. “Is that why you thought I was a ghost?”

“I didn’t think you were _really_ a ghost. But it did cross my mind for a split second that you might’ve been some sort of figment… of my imagination.”

“Was I just that otherworldly?”

“Possibly.”

Warren fished for a cigarette in his box, trailing out the last one with another laugh. “Or was I like one of your tiny, fat dragons?”

+

John got on the phone a few days after that, doing his usual badgering for a new album routine. He said he’d be over in a few days. So would the band. Elton promptly told him that none of them, especially not him, would be staying with him and Warren. John told him he wasn’t planning on it.

Perhaps inspired by Michael Jackson’s funky disco album, and also the desire to keep heading in new directions, the new album and title track was called ‘Victim of Love’. Another poignant groover. Pure disco past its prime. Its lyrics, even though they were written a good time ago, were a not-so-subtle nod to John, in Elton’s mind. But it could be applied to different things.

John hated the song, he hated the whole idea of a disco album, but that made Elton want to do it even more.

The album was released months later in December. It didn’t do too well, only reaching #33 in the charts in both the US and UK. Much to John’s great disapproval. Which, for Elton, made it brilliant. One of the best things he’d ever done. Especially considering he didn’t care how it did in the charts in the first place. And wasn’t it more important to stay true to and please yourself anyway?

On the same non-substance high, he took to the phone to key in that unforgettable phone number.

It went to voicemail. Of course. He didn’t know what he was going to say exactly, but he swore to himself that he would’ve said the same thing even if it hadn’t went to voicemail.

“Bernie.” He paused, gathering how he should continue. His thoughts argued on what to say. “I see you haven’t made any effort to find out where I am, you haven’t called in a while. I hope you’re happy… and I don’t mean that in a shitty way.” He did. Oh, he fucking did. “I really mean it. I really, really do. Because I am. I’ve never been so happy in my life. And it’s all because of you. You fucking off and leaving me was the best decision you ever made… I have way better friends now. So many of them. And they’re friends who actually care about me, who won’t turn their fucking backs on me for no fucking reason.” He could hear the plastic creaking against his ear, realising he was gripping it extra hard, he stopped himself. “Real friends. I, at least, have the heart to still call you even after what you did to me. I still care about you, even though I shouldn’t. Even though you’re a piece of fucking shit. Did you know that I only hung out with you when we weren’t working because I felt sorry for you? I did nothing to you, and you just abandoned me. Luckily I’m doing great, and I hope you are, too. I hope you’re happy now. Because I am. I am.”

_CLACK._

He felt small. Insignificant. He barely felt the confidence boost he had tried to give himself. Hands shaking, he wanted to go back and reiterate, change some things. But he couldn’t, so he blinked away the tears that had swollen his eyes, and headed out to make a drink. It was crazy how fast once-friends forgot you.

One drink became two, then Warren came in with the announcement that he’d gotten an invite to some party the following night at a place called Veronica’s a few streets away.

“What a perfect chance to celebrate, huh?”

Warren was referring to the slap the album did to John’s face. But Elton wanted it to mean something else.

“Yeah, perfect chance.”

+

Veronica’s was nothing more than an augmented and glorified dive bar. It had a small stage with a piano on it, and dim lighting with only key features having any light on them at all: a heated red drowned the stage, the few booths in the back, and the bar. There was another red light in the back of the stage, a sign in cursive that screamed: VERONICA’S!

It must have required an invite for something, but right now the answer to that wasn’t apparent.

Perhaps it was another case of an outsider’s perspective looking in. Maybe the real personality of the place would show its face later. What the place looked like barely mattered anyway, so long as they could serve a good drink. Which Warren was quick to assure that they did.

Like always, they’d loaded up before even getting there. A couple of drinks, and then an E each that was in full swing by the time they arrived. Elton brought an additional stockpile of cocaine and Warren took the liberty of bringing a bag of ecstasy. Whoever his dealer was was definitely in the right business.

They knocked back more drinks and danced. Elton was attempting to be mindful about how much alcohol he consumed because eventually it would start trying to overpower the ecstasy, and the result wasn’t something he was looking to feel. He wanted just enough to contribute to the ecstatic feeling, not sap from it.

People around them exploded, cheering, and it was enough to draw them out of their bubble.

They both whisked their heads around and let out similar squeals of excitement when they noticed Billy Joel fixing himself behind the piano onstage. He patted his bouffant black hair, then dragged the microphone down to his mouth.

“How’re we all feeling tonight?”

They looked back at each other, bug-eyed and hollering.

This couldn’t be real.

Billy hooted, causing the cramped crowd to let out another roar.

“What’re you doing here?” shouted Warren, hands walled to throw his voice.

“What _am_ I doing here?” Billy remarked, and the crowd laughed.

“Ain’t this a little small?”

“It is a little small,” Billy replied. “That’s the way I’m feeling it these days, I like to get a little intimate when performing from time-to-time. I like— I like to get down with you guys, you know? Up close and personal. Down and dirty. Is that a good answer?”

The crowd erupted with another mixture of laughter and applause. Elton let out a whoo out of relation to the sentiment.

“Hey, I’m not here for an interview.” More laughing. “Or to do stand-up.” More. “Are you guys on nitrous oxide or something tonight? Let me know.” He paused for another laugh. “Or, you know what, maybe don’t let me know.”

Elton and Warren, along with most of the others standing shoulder-to-shoulder with them, laughed almost hysterically at that, like they couldn’t stop.

“I’m not here to spoil your good time.” More laughing, then Billy himself gave a laugh. “But… but I’d kind of like to sing now, if you all don’t mind.”

The crowd quieted just enough, respecting him that much, and the speakers lifted to allow him to sing over them, should they start cracking up again.

After a few songs, Elton and Warren slipped off into the bathroom. They shared a grimy stall to swallow another E and snort a few shovelfuls of coke from Warren’s spoon, then headed back out, boogying back into the crowd. They kept drinking, and Elton forgot about his previous rule with himself, so changed it to: keep drinking and doing more coke and MDMA to keep the effects good and balanced. Fool-proof.

They managed to worm their way up almost to the front, even closer than they had been before. They high (very high)-fived.

“Alright, this next song… You know what, I’m just gonna sing it. You may know a few people like this, that’s all I’m gonna say. Maybe you even are one.”

The guitar player kicked into life and Joel smashed on the keys, symbols crashed, sending all-encompassing waves around his brain. The crowd cheered the entire time until he started to sing.

Elton blinked. He had heard the song before. ‘Big Shot’. But the way the lyrics about riding in a limousine and spoons up your nose were pummeling his eardrum right now, something wasn’t right. Something was extremely, alarmingly wrong. His face was bemused as he listened intently to the rest.

_“And when you wake up in the morning_

_With your head on fire_

_And your eyes too bloody to see,_

_Go on and cry in your coffee_

_But don't come bitchin’ to me.”_

He couldn’t make sense of how, or more importantly why, Billy Joel was singing directly to him. Not in the way he usually did through his songs, metaphysically, or whatever the fuck. He was singing about him. Directly to him. Looking him right in the eye. And before he went into the chorus, he jumped up to stand at the piano, pushing the stool back with his foot. The first time he’d stood up all night. He was singing about him. And he must’ve thought Elton was an idiot who couldn’t tell he was also making fun of him.

_“You had to have the last word, last night.”_

How the fuck did he know that?

How?

He’d never even met Bernie.

When did Bernie talk to him?

How the fuck did Bernie know he’d be here?

Billy Joel carried on singing, making the exaggerated gestures and expressions as if Elton wouldn’t be able to notice, and Elton stuck it a few minutes longer, measuring his breath, grinding his finger and thumb together, shaking his head with utter disbe-fucking-lief.

He sang the line he always did in the funny accent, and Elton shouted, no words in particular, only sound. When he didn’t stop, Elton stormed to the front of the stage and continued shouting, a few words slipping in this time.

“Hey! Hello? Hey.”

Billy stopped playing and the crowd let their displeasure be known. “What’s the problem, buddy?”

“You know what the fucking problem is!”

Billy looked around. “I… I’m afraid I kinda don’t.”

He got a laugh.

“Yeah, you do,” Elton sneered. “You’re fucking talking about me.”

The crowd burst into laughter, a heinous, horrible laughter that sounded fake, like screeching machines. Billy pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle his.

“Well, you know what they say, pal, if the boot fits, I guess…” More laughing. “I guess you should wear it. I don’t wanna tell you how to feel. Can I carry on now?”

“It’s not fucking funny. And I know now for certain that you were talking to him, because he said that exact thing to me one time. You don’t even understand the situation.”

“You’re right about that.” More laughing. “Listen, man,” Billy said, trying to segue out of it. “I wanna carry on—”

Heart pounding, Elton looked at the crowd; the array of faces were a mix of contorted laughter and wicked anger. “Stop laughing, it isn’t funny. He’s talking about me when he doesn’t even fucking know what happened.”

“Woah, hold on a sec. Hold on. What happened?”

More laughing.

“It isn’t funny!” Elton cried. “Explain, right now, why you’re doing this to me.”

“No, hold on, he’s fine,” Billy said, holding up a hand to someone offstage. “Tell me, seriously, tell me from the start. I’m all ears.”

“You know what you did.”

“I thought you said I didn’t know?”

More laughing.

“No, I said you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elton said. “And now you’re trying to make fun of me. I’m not an idiot. You were talking about me and what happened yesterday with Bernie, and you don’t even know why I did what I did. I fucking had to.”

“Hey, I’m not making fun of you and I never called you an idiot…” He waved his hand to try to quieten the crowd’s howling. “I just really wanna know what you’re talking about now. I don’t know how, but you’ve got me invested.” The crowd laughed again as he pulled the microphone out of its stand to walk around to the front of the piano. “Now, tell me again from the start. I didn’t think we were getting a stand-up show tonight, guys. You should be careful what you wish for, ‘cause it might end up stalling a show. Only kidding, man. Tell me again what you were saying… you were saying something about a friend of yours? Bernie?”

The crowd were manic.

“He’s not my friend anymore.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“No, you’re not. Tell them to stop laughing!”

“Hey guys, guys… Quieten down a little.” He ducked down, taking to one knee, then his face screwed up. “Hold on… Hang—” He gave half a laugh, then his face continued to twist. “Are you… Am I talking to Elton John right now?” The crowd ditched their silence yet again. “No, I’m serious… Elton John? Can we get some lights? Can we get a light down here?”

A white light blinded him.

“Stop fucking with me.” Elton held his hands above his eyes. “I get it, you’re all here to laugh at me, and _you_ think you’re fucking hilarious. But all I wanted to know was why you think you have the right to say that shit, when you don’t even know what happened. Answer me that!”

“Shit, it is Elton John.”

“You don’t even know what he did to me!” Elton shouted.

“Hey, I woulda said I’m happy to see you if I’d’ve known you were here, but…” More laughing. “I don’t think you’d be saying the same thing to me for some reason… You’re a little confused. Do you know where you are?” More. More laughing. “Want me to call you a cab?”

Elton swung up his middle finger. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Woah, okay.” Billy pivoted a little. More laughter. “Uh… no, sirrrr.”

“You don’t fucking know anything about it, you asshole. You can’t just do that, and none of you know what the fuck he’s talking about! He’s talking shit.”

“Yeah, buddy, sure. _I’m_ talking shit. Well, I don’t wanna be one to ruin a good time, you know, I’m all for it… but I think you’re gonna have to leave.”

“No, _you_ should fucking leave.”

“No…” Laughing. “I’m doing a show.” More laughing.

“Elton.” Warren’s voice behind him, then he curled around and took him by the arm. “Leave it.”

“No!” Elton tried to unwrangle his arm, skin crawling with anger. “He’s starting shit with me. I didn’t even do anything and he’s starting shit. He’s taking Bernie’s side on this and he doesn’t even know anything!”

“I’m not taking any sides, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Billy said.

Warren put a finger to his own lips and pulled at him. Elton dug his heels in a moment longer, and watched Billy Joel settle back behind the piano. The incessant laughing drove him to give in and follow Warren. They headed outside.

Billy kept talking, but his voice and everybody’s laughter faded out the closer they got to the door.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting that one. Special guest, I guess! Put your hands together for Elton John!”

The door shutting behind them drowned out the last of it. The cool air was refreshing. The darkness, not so much. Warren let go.

“What the hell was that about?”

“How’d you not hear that?” Elton blotted his hand against Warren’s arm. “Or see that? He was taking the fucking piss out of me. Why would you bring me there if you knew he was gonna be there?”

Warren gave him a perplexed look but said nothing as they walked on down the path. They stopped at a crosswalk.

“I didn’t know… And I thought you liked Billy Joel.”

“I did,” Elton corrected. “But he was fucking talking about me in there. Somehow he knew about what happened with Bernie. Fucking ridiculous. I wasn’t just gonna stand there and let him, the fucking asshole, I had to say something.”

“What happened with you and Bernie?” Warren asked. “You told me you guys… had a falling out. Was there something more…?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Elton said, and didn’t mean that at all. They crossed the street. Then his mind returned to what happened inside Veronica’s. “Wait ‘til you see—him and everyone in there’s gonna spin this and make it seem like I’m the fucking bad guy. Just you wait. It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow. Fuck’s sake.”

“It won’t, don’t be so paranoid… So what if it is, anyway? You need to stop letting things get to you, it ain’t a big deal.” Warren looked at the sky for a second. “Let’s go quickly, I think it’s gonna rain.”

+

The following day, it was on the television. As promised. Unflattering images of him flashing on the screen next to ones of Joel looking immaculate.

“Look! What did I tell you?”

Warren crossed his legs and looked at the screen. He lifted the bowl he’d brought in off the armrest.

“Look at the pictures they’re using of me, they’re all old. I look fucking horrible.” Elton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ. Is this breaking news?”

_“Apparently, Elton John crashed Billy Joel’s performance in a secluded bar last night. According to other attendees, he shouted loud enough to cause a scene and Joel to halt his show, then proceeded to shout at him, yelling nonsense and profanity until he was made to leave. Was this due to an unknown rivalry between them, or had Elton John just had a few too many drinks last night? Could this be the start of a feud between them? We haven’t got any response from either of them yet—”_

“I don’t think she claimed it as breaking news,” Warren said, lounging back on the armchair, then throwing a grape up and catching it in his mouth.

“What’d I tell you? I told you they’d turn it against me.” Elton pointed at the monitor. “That’s not even true. I wasn’t made to leave.”

_“Though, we doubt John would have anything to say, as he hasn’t made any real appearances in years.”_

Warren threw another grape into his cheek, and talked while chewing, saying: “Right, because me dragging you out wasn’t being made to leave.”

_“Joel handled the bizarre situation with suave ease, of course—”_

“Turn that shit off.”

Warren looked at him agape, like he wanted to protest, but instead he lifted the remote and zapped the TV off.

“Better?”

“Not much, no.”

It still didn’t make any sense. He knew what he saw. He knew what he heard. He knew it. Thinking back on it, images and moments only came to him in flashes, barely decipherable, but he remembered how it felt. He knew it was real. And he knew he wasn’t crazy. Even though that was the only apparent option to everyone else. Both of his legs were juddering like an old tractor engine. He clasped his shaking hands.

The phone rang, right on time, like they do in a horror movie.

Warren looked over, then picked himself up to go and answer it.

“Don’t,” Elton said gravely.

Warren took his seat again, slowly doing his action in reverse.

“Don’t answer it.”

“Okay,” Warren said, in a forcefully chipper tone. “I won’t. I won’t answer it.”

It could have been John, but he was illogically sure it was Bernie. He definitely didn’t want to talk to either of them, but especially not him. He’d be giving a stupid apology. Or asking him what happened with that stupid voice, pretending he had no idea. That prick. Two-faced liar. Even if he hadn’t let the information go himself, he’d obviously hacked the phone line. Or told someone else to. Somehow. That voicemail was probably being sent around the world. So answering phones was another connection that needed to be severed anyway. If he wanted any kind of privacy. Which was one of the only things he had left.

+

Over a year later. Almost to the day. They were over at Sam and Julianna’s apartment. Still in New York.

December 8th, 1980. Billy Joel was on television again, but cocked in some talk show host’s chair.

_“Yeah, I didn’t know it was Elton John at first. So, I just let him go on, you know. I wasn’t trying to make a spectacle of someone, I just thought it would’ve been somethin’ funny. Maybe I’m not great for doing that.”_

“No way they are _still_ talking about that,” Elton said, sitting back down across from Julianna.

“Looks like it,” Warren said.

_“But when I saw it was Elton John, I thought, ‘There’s something not right here.’ Right? I mean, I didn’t know what I had to do. But thankfully, someone came up and brought him away. I thought he was just drunk or something, maybe high at first, but now, you know, looking back on it… he might not’ve been okay. Like, not…right in the head. No, I’m serious. You should’ve heard him, it was flat-out delusional stuff, I’m honestly kind of worried about the guy. Elton, if you’re watching this, I hope you’re alright, man. Seriously.”_

Elton cracked open the beer can with a loud snap. “Oh, please.” He chugged it down, and set it on the floor empty.

“Why’s he saying that?” Julianna asked. “What happened again?”

“I just got a little too drunk and caused a scene.” He pulled a string of skin from his cuticle—too much. It bled, then stung, and he pressed it against his leg. “He’s just being all uppity about it.”

“I think he’s just being nice,” Julianna said. “He always seems like a real genuine guy. I’d say he’s really concerned.”

“Concerned, my ass. He’s still trying to get one over on me. And if he was being genuine, someone needs to tell him he has no need to be worried, because I’m fine. Aren’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” Warren added.

The door flung open and Sam rushed inside panting, forehead slicked with sweat because it wasn’t raining outside. He leaned against the wall, hand on chest, his whole body descending with each breath.

“Where’s my cigarettes?” asked Warren.

Sam swallowed a much-needed lungful of air, then attempted to shout, “Turn the TV on!”

“It’s on,” Julianna laughed, pointing at it.

“Yup. We’ve already seen it, don’t worry,” Elton said tediously, bending his neck over the back of the sofa to look at him upside down. “That stupid dick. You sprinted all the way up here to tell us to watch that? Come on.”

“No,” Sam said, then swallowed dryly. “The fucking news or something! John Lennon was— he was just shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted in this chapter was Big Shot by Billy Joel  
> I do not own it.


	19. The Game Nobody Wins

+

John Lennon had been shot dead.

An ambulance had whisked past Sam as he was approaching The Dakota, people were screaming in the street. Next thing, somebody said he seen someone shoot John Lennon.

Sam dropped the bag of last-minute things he had gone out to get and ran back to Julianna’s apartment.

John was officially declared dead about twenty minutes later in hospital.

Some people had the news broken to them on a live American football match. Most people in the world didn’t find out until the next day, had to wake up from a dream to it.

Elton hadn’t been able to sleep. Nothing new. But he couldn’t even bear to lie down and attempt to. He couldn’t even cry.

He and Warren got high instead. Nothing new. They sat on the floor of a guest room and did their now-usual bit of coke, bit of ecstasy. It was understood that there was nothing at all to say, and there was nothing ecstatic. When the high fell, they chain-smoked the last few cigarettes Warren had lying around: one at a time, passing it back and forth like a joint. The only reason Elton agreed to smoke them was because nothing seemed real or like it could be ever again. And they were menthol cigarettes. They didn’t taste or smell as vile.

Another person stolen. Another who was human enough to fuck up and good enough to try to make up for the things they did wrong—killed off. Murdered. Meanwhile, Elton was still kicking. God couldn’t possibly exist.

Every time his mind turned back to that picture, the drawing that John had childishly scrawled in Marc’s house for him, and Elton had stuck inside his journal like a proud mother, the bitter mixture of feelings was too much, and he’d have to think of something else.

John Lennon was his friend. A good friend. The kind of friend you didn’t have to see regularly to know things would always remain the same between you. Now things would never be the same. They wouldn’t even be.

Stations couldn’t stop playing his music. He listened to ‘I Am A Rock’ by Simon & Garfunkel on repeat, but he still heard Lennon slipping through in the quiet moments. Elton was certain he’d throw Julianna’s radio or television set out the window if he had to hear even a second of ‘Working Class Hero’ or ‘Imagine’ one more time. He and Warren went back to Andreas’ penthouse as a precaution. He was there sometimes these days, but the place was still theirs.

New York City was one of the biggest heartbeats of the universe. Yet it felt cold. Dead. Elton could no longer feel its pulse.

His world was becoming empty. Anything he touched died, or left. He broke everything.

He was in a city populated by millions yet he’d never felt so lonely.

Life as he knew it was dying. Perhaps it was already dead. What was the point?

There was no solution, fixing things was out of the question. But a fusion of drugs could sink things to the back of your skull.

Two months later.

“What time do you need to go?”

Elton asked this referring to an appointed drug pick-up as he stepped off the scale. Since doing it the first time, it had become addictive. It was like picking at a wound attempting to heal.

118lbs. That number was fine. But it was two pounds up from last week. And it made no sense, because any desire he had to eat had been vanquished. He survived solely off of granola bars and ice cream, yet his face, his entire body, had filled back out. Warren said it wasn’t by much, he couldn’t tell, but what did he know. He wasn’t the one who had to look at or be in this body 24/7. It was more than noticeable. He was trying to be nice. Trying to compensate for it was debilitating.

Elton John didn’t recognise the person he was looking at in the mirror before him, and not in a progressive way. Not in the way he wanted. If he stared at it for too long, like he was doing now, what he saw barely resembled a person at all. His sunken, blackened eyes. The sickly shut-in tinge to his flesh.

He had woken up about an hour ago, and it was the middle of the day. Nothing new. He didn’t arise with a hangover today, just the shakes. His fingernails had grown out a little, and had scraped the back of his throat five minutes ago. He could taste the blood with every swallow.

He left the door open because Warren was more than familiar with his bathroom routine by now. He didn’t bat an eyelash when he heard vomiting or anything else coming from it. He had the first time, but now he understood.

“Elton?”

The slight irritability and bout of concern in the intonation of Warren’s voice echoing back told Elton that he had missed an answer.

“Yes?” he answered.

“About seven,” Warren said.

“Oh. Alright.”

They weren’t out of drugs, but everything was in pretty low supply. Usually, they never let it get that bad, but this time restocking had slipped both of their minds.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah…” Elton sniffed, wiped his chronically running nose. “‘Course it is. Has to be, doesn’t it?”

The radio in the kitchen was playing music. Lowly, though. Barely heard. Sweet were whisper-shouting ‘Love Is Like Oxygen.’ He turned the tap on and unzipped the toiletry bag slowly to mask its sound further.

He was open about most but not all things. Elton didn’t feel bad about it because he knew Warren did the same—he kept his in his sock drawer. The least interesting drawer.

Elton tapped out a tiny amount of pre-crushed coke onto the counter, the last of his private stash. He swore beneath his breath at that realisation, but snorted it reminding himself more would be on the way. He just had to wait until seven.

“Come on,” he told himself. “Come on, it’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

He reached back into his self-supplied care package for a couple of laxatives—a new experiment he’d started. He _knew_ he was abusing those, but needs must. It wasn’t glamorous. None of this was. He’d long since realised that.

An album was released that had a song on it called ‘White Lady White Powder,’ a lyric he had found in his stash of unused Bernies. Bernie probably never thought it would see the light of day. But Bernie thought wrong. Elton sang it with every fibre of his being, as if it wasn’t based on himself, and it wasn’t written by his ex best friend who thought he was a no-good junkie.

_I’m a catatonic son of a bitch who’s had a touch too much of white powder. And she’s a habit I can’t handle, for a reason I can’t say…_

You bet, Bernie.

He threw the laxatives back, instinctively chewing them despite that not being advised, and stuffed the bag back into the secret space in the cupboard below the sink.

“Are you done in there yet?” Warren asked.

“Yeah. Good to go.”

Elton left the bathroom, and he and Warren almost ran into each other.

“It’s only five now…” Warren said, tracing his fingers along Elton’s arm. “I might have a bath before I go.”

“That sounds good.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Warren smiled, then kissed him. “What are you gonna do?”

“Oh, I dunno. I’ll do something. Lie in bed for a while maybe. Tired.”

“Sounds good.”

They kissed again, then Warren handed him the tall glass of water he was holding. “I got you this. Save you chewing them up.”

Elton opened his mouth, showing the bitter and chalky substance that was coating his tongue.

“Eugh.” Warren wrinkled his nose, lightly thumped Elton’s chest. “You shouldn’t do that, you know. It’s a bad habit. You’re not supposed to, I told you.”

“Surprised you didn’t taste it.”

Warren was still thrusting the water forward. “I didn’t. At least wash it away. Probably tastes horrible.”

Elton reluctantly took the glass.

He had no doubt that Warren wouldn’t try to poison him. But for some reason the thought that that was what he was doing infiltrated his own relatively normal stream. It was nothing short of preposterous, something only plausible to someone of unsound mind. He smiled, kissed him once more, and went to the bedroom. He didn’t drink it.

He set it on the nightstand to collect a film of dust and climbed into their unmade bed, mind ticking over. The sound of nothing was too loud, so he got up again to put an album on. One of the albums’ corners was jutting out a little further than the rest in the stand. It had to be that one. He pulled it out the rest of the way.

‘The White Album.’ The Beatles.

His fingers almost dropped it, but he gripped it, supposing he could listen to it now. It was like John was giving him permission. He had to pay his respects to him somehow.

The record was pulled out and stuck on, and he packed what was left of the grass on the dresser the record player sat on into a yellowed glass pipe. Then his hand fell to the second drawer down.

He knew it was wrong, an asshole thing to do… But it wasn’t like he’d ever done it before. It’d be a first offence. They were getting more, and he needed something now. It wouldn’t hurt if he took a _little._ He could give him some of his personal stash next time. Make up for it.

He’d understand.

He lifted a tell-tale stocky pair of red socks in the back and unravelled them to find the core he was looking for. There was more than he thought there would be. Weed. A spoonful of MDMA. Few ecstasy pills.

_I need a fix ‘cause I’m going down…_

‘Happiness Is A Warm Gun’ had a macabre ring to it now. That warped guitar. The merry little chants of ‘bang-bang, shoot-shoot’. Hearing John singing about a gun was almost enough to make him want to vomit again. He told himself getting higher would change his perspective and allow him to enjoy the rest of the album.

When the song reached that mesmerising high-note, he’d decided he could take everything that was inside. Warren would understand. He’d find it funny.

+

His thoughts were half-there, like your consciousness before you sleep. Time was unclear. The wind was whining against the window. The crack in the blinds told him it was dark outside.

He jolted upright in a layer of cold sweat, hair steeped in it, leaving a stain on the pillow.

He hadn’t fallen asleep, he had been lying there in an elated haze for… hours apparently.

He got to his feet and lifted the joint on the nightstand. He hadn’t remembered rolling it, but he must have. He was still high, but no longer at the peak of it. His stomach was convulsing with a ghastly sickness.

He lit the joint and headed out. It was quiet, almost unearthly so, apart from the trickle of music leaking from the bathroom. Warren also kept the door open, a crack.

He looked to the clock.

6:35

“Hey,” he said. “It’s almost seven. I know you like to take long baths, but how long have you been in there?”

That wasn’t a snide remark in an attempt to get him to hurry, it was true. Warren could be in the bath for three hours at a time. He didn’t answer.

“You can’t hear me. That’s fine.”

Elton’s stomach groaned loudly.

“Oh, shit.”

Literally.

It was a grisly thing to think of doing whilst high, but needs must.

“I need to go to the bathroom…” he called out, laughing. “But don’t worry, I’ll spare you, I’ll use the other one.”

He went to the other bathroom at the other side of the hall. He stayed sitting to smoke the rest of the joint, then hucked its body down the toilet.

Warren’s dealer had said on more than one occasion that he only ever wanted Warren coming to pick up. He didn’t want an A-lister coming to his house for A-classes. His words.

“Hey. I’ll go, I know where he lives. One night only,” Elton called out, thinking he couldn’t risk not getting it. He could take the risk of anything else. “I’ll be sneaky as a fox, so you can keep enjoying your bath. Okay?”

No answer, perhaps just the faint sound of humming or singing along to Diana Ross.

Confirmation to himself: “Okay.”

He went to lift the money off the coffee table, then his peacoat off the rack by the door. He lifted his hat too, then felt a bulge in his pocket. He reached in and his hand returned with a pair of shades.

He picked the keys off the wall last minute, and slid out the door, shouting: “I won’t be two minutes!”

Elton stepped into the elevator and came face-to-face with himself again in the mirror. He stared at it, almost getting creeped out by the fact it was looking back at him despite knowing how a mirror worked. He didn’t want to look at it, but he also couldn’t look away in case it remained staring.

“Excuse me?”

An old woman was talking to him.

He took the chance and looked away, down at her.

She smiled, but something about her too looked off. Like there was something menacing behind her eyes. Something not quite right. Her green eyes looked like a snake’s. If he stared at her too long maybe she’d shed her wrinkled skin and become one. The longer he looked, the more her flesh seemed to droop forward, starting.

“Are you going right down?” she asked.

Elton mustered a nod, trying to quieten his mouth-breathing as she reached past him to press the required button.

As the elevator rode down, butterflies beat around in his insides. He turned and stared at the wall instead of the serpent’s impersonation of an old lady or the mirror.

“This is the last stop,” she said, holding her S’s too long, in the same chipper voice, too sweet to truly be wholesome.

Elton didn’t look at her again, fearing what he might see. He marched straight off and out the front of the building.

He was instantly thankful for the shades and hat. It wasn’t much of a disguise in itself, but it seemed to do the trick. Everybody who looked at him, even those who turned their necks to, didn’t react in a way that implied they recognised him.

He recalled the way Warren had described previous trips to his dealer—just turn a corner, walk to the end of that street, and take another turn. His apartment building was the only one on its street that was red-bricked. That shouldn’t be hard to find. He made the decision to take a left turn. He couldn’t remember the number he lived in, but he could worry about that when it came to it. If he was late, it wouldn’t be a big deal. They were bound to be one of his most loyal customers.

He walked along the street, the pavement glistening from rain that must have fallen on it in the hours before. The wind was still cutting; it sliced cool, invisible cuts into his skin, numbing his cheeks.

He’d never walked around New York at night. Except for coming back from a club. It was whimsical, a little bit frightening. Like a dream you can’t make sense of.

The people walking around had their own places to go, it seemed. If it weren’t for the pitch black sky it would’ve seemed like midday. Things were still alive. Graffiti swam. Everything was lit-up: people’s faces as they blurred by, signs, streetlights, still-open storefronts. Colours blended. Details were crisp and magnified, like that of the texture of the street sign poles, the individual lights in signs. But headlights drew lines in the air. Everything was lucid, yet surreal.

Then he saw him, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

Bernie.

They locked eyes among the flock of people, and he knew it was him. It was insane, but he was certain, because nobody else had stopped walking. Except for he and Bernie. Staring, as if through a portal that was glowing, emitting a halo. Then he was gone. Swept away in the current of people, or perhaps he bolted off. At first, Elton had felt a seed of hope plant in his belly. Then it was dug up and swallowed by blinding rage.

“Hey, jerk. Get out of the way, man, you’re blocking everybody!”

Elton glanced at the man who was yelling, then shouldered through gaps that barely existed to get to where Bernie was moments before, bumping into others and shouting his name as he went, but he had completely disappeared. He scrabbled further, vehemently studying people he pushed past for that same long brown hair, that same set, angry face. But nothing. Bernie was gone. Bernie was gone.

He kept walking in the same direction seeking him, then realised what he was supposed to be doing. What time was it? Where was he?

He stopped and turned back. The wall of people obscured his sense of direction. They hadn’t looked odd until he focused on their faces. They were all looking at him. People crossing the street weren’t looking where they were going, they were craning their necks to stare at him. It was strange because eye contact wasn’t customary for passersby in New York City. It was strange because they all looked angry, fiendish.

Panting now, he turned back again and hurried until he reached a newsstand. It was lit up with the safe glow of a motel on a long strip of dirt road. He stepped under its light and wafted away a few of the bat-like moths drawn to it as he was. The man inside the tiny box also looked like there was something wrong with him. Like the old lady. Like the rest of them. Elton knew he had to play it cool, not give anything away. Everybody was looking at him for some reason. Maybe they knew where he was going. Maybe they knew who he was after all. Maybe they knew something he didn’t.

His heart was thumping in his chest. He averted his eyes from the man’s and licked his lips, noticing they were dry.

He could feel the man’s eyes on him as he reached for a paper.

The main headline read: _February 17th, 1981._

It didn’t make any sense.

He looked at the thin strip where the date was supposed to be contained.

_IT’S TOO LATE_

His eyebrows bunched together harshly.

It didn’t make sense.

He looked back at the vendor, who offered back a smile and nothing more.

“What time is it?” he asked him.

The man said nothing. He lifted his hands at either side of his head and twitched his shoulders.

The blood in Elton’s ears was thrashing. He threw the newspaper onto the ground, the letters stuck and melted to the saturated pavement. He lifted the next newspaper.

_February 17th, 1981_

_IT’S TOO LATE_

He dropped it and lifted the next, shaking it when it said the same thing.

“What’s too late? What’s too fucking late? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

He feverishly rummaged through the rest, one after another, after another—jaw tightening with a slow clench, discarding each one onto the ground when they cried the same thing. The flutter of their fragmenting sheets, his own sharpening breathing, sounded like choruses of it.

_IT’S TOO LATE_

_IT’S TOO LATE_

_IT’S TOO LATE_

“Stop, you can’t do that!” the man yelled.

Elton, crumpling the current paper in his hands, demanded: “What time is it?”

“I told you, I don’t know!”

The assemblage of papers pinned up behind the man like posters were animated, the black-and-white photos of buildings and people warped and flashed like old cartoons.

Their headlines, their perfectly normal headlines, changed in succession, like a trivision billboard, past ones dissolving, all shouting the same thing.

_IT’S TOO FUCKING LATE, ELTON_

He swallowed stickily and took a step forward. He knew it was insane. But it was real. He took his sunglasses off, put them in his pocket. He blinked. Twice. It was real.

“What is this?” he asked, looking at the man. He attempted to swallow again. He’d been scared for a while now, but now he was ready to panic. His spine was swaying with the wind, like an old picket fence, and he was sure he could hear his knees creaking like wood. He attempted to swallow again. “What— I don’t understand what any of this means, I don’t know what it is. Can you… Can you help me?”

He was dubious about asking for his help, but at this point it was his only option.

“Please. I don’t understand… you have to help me. You have to— What time— what time is it?”

He didn’t know if he was asking the right question. He was panting. No matter how much he blinked, his eyes were cold. Then he thought he heard someone, a voice, whispering that it was too late— _What the fuck does that mean?_ —close by his left ear, and he turned like a whip with the dawning realisation that somebody had been watching. All of this, somebody—

Nobody.

Either whoever said it was faster than light, or he was going crazy. And he wasn’t sure which was worse. He couldn’t shake it. He was going absolutely crazy. He had to be. All of this was, was…

“Excuse me, sir.”

He spun again, fumblingly, to face the even bolder voice, sure to catch this one. If it was there, if it was there… Fuck. If it was real.

Two men in police uniform.

“Oh.” Elton let go of a breath that was relieved the source was there. He flourished the paper in his hand, sheets falling out onto the graveyard of them at his feet, smacking his lips. “What does this mean, do you know what it means?”

“Would you be able to come with us?” one said, instead of answering.

Elton stepped backward cautiously. “Why?”

“Don’t make it difficult.”

“You aren’t real cops,” Elton said confidently, after scrutinising their uniforms. He pointed at the taller man on the right. “No, your hat isn’t even on straight. You can’t do that if you’re a real cop.”

They looked at each other incredulously.

“Just come with us please, Mr. John.”

Elton lifted his finger in a ‘gotcha’ fashion. “How do you know my name?”

The cop on the left shook his head and stepped forward. “Come with us.”

He took light hold of his arm and led him to the police car at the side of the road.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.” He pulled the back door open. “Not yet. We just need to bring you in, ask a few things.”

Elton climbed inside and hunched forward, benumbed, covering his face with his hands.

+

They brought him to a police station, and that was when Elton had begun to believe they were authentic police officers. He’d forgotten what made him think otherwise.

“What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

Elton wrinkled his brow. It made no sense, he hadn’t been out for hours. But it was sobering. He swallowed, and there was actually saliva there to do it. Sobering.

“Do you know why we had to bring you in?”

“I don’t know. To help?”

“Not… really,” one said. “You were destroying a newsstand.”

“I wasn’t trying to, I was trying to check them all, to make sure— I was— I wasn’t trying to wreck it.”

“In your underwear,” the cop finished curtly.

“Wh—”

Elton looked down, wide-eyed, at his bare legs between the parting of his coat. Worn scars were _just_ visible. Horrified. Completely. But too… whatever was going on to properly express it. He squirmed in the uncomfortable chair.

“Oh.”— _Fuck_ —“Sorry…” He uncrossed his legs and fixed the coat over them. “Sorry. I, I was just out to get some things… I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. I must’ve… forgot.”

“To put clothes on?”

Elton nodded, then slowly touched his sleeve. “I remembered to put a coat on. Shoes.” He peeked the cap of his shoe around the table’s leg. “Look.”

The cop didn’t look. “What were you doing out tonight, Mr. John?”

Stunned again, Elton curled his hand on his sleeve. “How do you know my name?”

The cops shared a glance before continuing.

“Do you know who you are?”

“Yes,” Elton said. “Of course I do.”

“You’re famous. We know your name because we recognise you. We know who you are.”

“Oh.”

“Again, what brought you out tonight?”

“I was… I went out to get some things. I said that.”

“What things?”

“I wanted to get some cigarettes, for my… friend.”

“Where’re the cigarettes?”

“I forgot them,” Elton said, eyes trailing away from their faces. “I got lost, and I forgot to get them.”

“Mr. John, have you been drinking this evening?”

“No.”

“Taken any drugs? Prescription? _Otherwise?_ ”

Elton shook his head.

Both cops left the room for a few minutes and came back with more papers.

“Am I being arrested?” His voice was hoarse again. “I’m sorry for what I did, I won’t do it again. Can I please go home?”

“You’re not being arrested. You’ll get to go home,” the first cop said, suddenly amiable. “But we have to ask you not to go back there.”

“The newsstand,” added the other.

“That’s fine, I won’t. I won’t.” Elton held a hand up. “Cross my fuckin’ heart.”

“Before you go…” The first cop slid over a small piece of paper and smiled. “Can you sign this? It’s for my wife. She’ll be so stoked.”

“Yeah,” Elton said immediately, though a little off guard. He bared his teeth in a counterfeit smile back, like an alien trying to replicate human emotion. “Yeah… Can I borrow that pen?”

“Oh, sure. Here.”

He dropped it on the paper. Elton signed it quickly, then pushed it back with another smile.

“Can I go?”

The cop pocketed the autograph and stood. “Yeah. We’ll take you.”

“You won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”

“No.” He smiled.

“Can’t promise no one else will,” said the other. “Busy street.”

Distrusting, wanting to leave, Elton stood up as well.

The cop car pulled up at the penthouse.

“Is this the right one?”

“Mm-hm.” Elton opened the door and got out. “Thanks… I guess.”

“You’re welcome. Take care.” The passenger cop rolled his window down and grinned. “But _don’t go_ doing that again!”

An attempted joke. It fell flat, even to his partner, but Elton gave a laugh anyway as he fixed his coat tightly around himself.

“Couldn’t if I tried.”

“If there is a next time, at least make sure you’re wearing pants!”

“Ha-ha! There won’t be, I can assure you. Bye, now.”

He turned and walked into the building, recalling why he’d gone out in the first place. Fuck.

It’d be fine.

Once he told Warren everything that happened, he’d find it fucking hilarious and he’d understand. They’d push through another day.

He took the stairs this time and felt for his keys when he reached the door.

There was still music humming from inside, and he laughed as he went in.

“Honey, I’m home!”

The sun-shaped clock on the wall still reading the same thing as it did before he left reminded him that the clock was broken.

It made perfect sense.

“You’re still in the bath, huh?” Elton hung his coat back, breathing another laugh as he looked down at his bare legs once more. Real heat touching them made him realise how cold it must have been out there, his skin nipped against it. “Well, I didn’t manage to get to your dealer, but I did have a fucking trip. Can I come in and tell you?”

Warren mustn’t have heard him.

Elton gave a knock on the door before pushing it open the rest of the way, loudening the sound of Diana Ross & The Supremes and The Temptations singing ‘I Second That Emotion’. He’d had it on repeat this entire time.

Elton looked around the corner.

The cover of the record Warren was listening to was lying on the tile. His feet were the only part of him visible from where Elton was stood, propped up between the taps of the bath.

Elton’s face drained cold again in an instant.

The way his feet were positioned so unnaturally: one crooked and facing upward, while the other was lying flat, toes bent on the wall, told Elton something wasn’t right. He suddenly felt like he’d re-entered a perpetual nightmare.

He took a few more steps inside, careful on the freezing tile, heart thumping in his throat, hair on his nape and arms pricking. Then his muscles seized, horrified, twitching at the sight he saw.

Warren, washed-out pale. Paler than he was. Slumped, waterline up to just below his eyes that were serenely shut as if he were sleeping. But he wasn’t sleeping. There was a stream of white foam on the sudless surface, leaving his mouth.

The room was spinning. Elton took a deep breath to clear the light-headedness, it helped, but not as much as he needed it to. Not even close.

He stepped closer, listening to the sound of his own ragged breath over the music as he shakily reached out to touch Warren’s hand that was hanging over the edge of the bath.

Cold.

It confirmed what he already knew, and his face twisted, his eyes seared.

“No…” His voice echoed off the hard walls, his fingers grazed and slipped off Warren’s. It couldn’t be. He screamed, screamed his voice to tatters. He pushed his hands into the surface of the cool water with a dull, lifeless clunk, and clamped them onto Warren’s ribs, either side, attempting to pull him upright, get his face out of the water. He was rigid. The deadweight on his arms caused him to sob recklessly, but he hoisted him up and propped him against the wall of the bath. His inert head remained in the same bent position, then it weakly toppled forward, milky droplets slipping off his nose dripped back into the bath.

Elton yowled breathlessly, looking around the scene past the tears welling up his vision. He smacked himself in the face repeatedly, dug his tingling fingers into his hair, pulling it tight, trying to force himself to make sense of this. Try to piece together what the hell happened. What he had to do.

He leaned over the bath, his face inches away from Warren’s, trying to see, feel, hear if he was breathing. He already knew he wasn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself from trying, then checking for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. He screamed, pulling the shower curtain off its rail, then doubled over, hands forking back through his hair as he writhed and screamed again.

He cried, listening to the sound from a separate perspective, as if it wasn’t him doing it. Sirens wailing outside made him draw a breath. Panic spurred him into sitting up.

If he called the police, if he called an ambulance, they’d think he’d done it. They’d think he was a murderer. Then he really would get arrested. There would be nothing to prove he didn’t. He’d go to jail. It’d be all over the news. All over the news.

They might already be coming.

He mentally argued with his own thoughts, and adrenaline burning through his veins and empty stomach pulled him together enough to whisk out into the hall. As he made his way to the living room, the cryptic words from the newsstand presented themselves in his mind in hellish overlapping whispers that also seemed to be coming from every crevice of the room.

_It’s too late. It’s too fucking late, Elton._

Against their judgement, he pulled the receiver off the phone on the wall and unsteadily dialed 911 as if he’d never had to perform something so intricate before. He pressed his fingers against his other ear, only slightly muting the external mantra, pushing the ones coming from inside in further, loudening. They _screamed._ He asked for an ambulance, knowing there was no point. They couldn’t help. It was too late.

“—and what’s the problem, sir?”

“My friend, he’s dead. He’s fucking dead. You have to come right now.”

“Alright, try to remain calm. Do you know that? Are you sure he’s not just unconscious?”

“No, he’s fucking dead. Get here, now.”

“We’re getting to you right now, sir. Have you tried any form of resuscitation?”

“No, he’s dead. Are you listening to me? He’s dead. His body’s frozen fucking solid. Oh my fucking God. You have to get here as fast as possible, I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay, sir, remain calm. We’re getting services to you right now, concentrate on that, okay? Stay on the line.”

“Hurry…” His voice was tight, barely escaping. He tilted his forehead against the wall and pressed his full weight. “Jesus Christ. He’s fucking dead. He’s dead.”

The sight of the police again, especially coming in through the front door, their front door, was ill-omened.

Elton didn’t go back into the bathroom. They asked a few questions and he admitted to them that he’d adjusted his body before they asked about that. They seemed mildly bothered, despite the fact he’d done it trying to help. He wasn’t thinking. How could he be?

While they and the paramedics assessed the area, Elton remained in the living room, trembling fingers reaching into the open cigarette box next to him on the sofa. He lifted one out and lit it. It wasn’t menthol, but that suited the circumstances. He made himself smoke it, denying his gag reflex, when a cop emerged from the bathroom.

“He’s dead.”

“I know he is,” Elton snapped. He swallowed past the fuzziness building on his tongue.

“From what we can gather, we’re sure he’s been dead for a… few hours.”

Elton’s dry throat managed to let him rasp: “How?”

“We can’t say.”

“You can’t say or you don’t know?”

“We don’t know. We’re going to contact a coroner.”

Why didn’t they bring one? He already told them he was—

Elton nodded a few times, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. The nicotine was giving his body a tingling lightness that wasn’t particularly comforting, making his hands tremor further.

“Do you know what happened to the shower curtain?”

Elton’s eyes flicked up. “I pulled it down.”

“Why?”

Elton pressed his mouth shut, nostrils flaring as he released smoke.

“I was throwing a fit,” he told him. “I’d just found my— I found him, dead. Dead.” He shook his head and killed the rotten cigarette against the box he’d taken it from. “Dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs quoted in this chapter were  
> White Lady White Powder by Elton John  
> Happiness Is A Warm Gun by The Beatles  
> I do not own them.


	20. Desperate Desire For Change

+

The cigarette packet lay there for weeks.

Everything remained untouched: his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor, his make-up and associated paraphernalia cluttering the dresser. Elton didn’t want it any other way, but he also couldn’t couldn’t bear it. A macabre time capsule.

The autopsy report confirmed Warren had drowned. And that his body was chock-full of MDMA when he did. An accident.

Elton could picture him sticking on the record his sister had gotten him for his 25th birthday, stepping into the bath full of manufactured exhilaration, and sinking down into the bubbles with the thought of the dreamy experience he was about to be blessed with.

The image of what had occurred minutes or hours after that was something he didn’t want to think about, that kept infiltrating his train of thought every time he attempted to think of him. Although, he’d been assured drowning wasn’t always the thrashing portrayal they promised you in movies. Apparently, most cases were a slow, deceptively quiet affair. Which wasn’t as soothing as the one who told him possibly assumed.

“You can stay here as long as you like. As long as you need,” Andreas had told him, in his very real Belgian accent.

And Elton had nodded. But as soon as they’d taken his body away, he’d known he had to get out. Out of the penthouse, out of the country.

But if he went back to the house he owned—it wasn’t home, he had no idea where home was anymore—John would likely be there. Like a fucking squatter.

He had nothing now. No amount of anything could fix that. In the last few weeks, for the first time in a while, his arms, thighs, even parts of his torso were reduced, again, to looking like they had been through a woodchipper and back. And it hadn’t done a thing to help.

Arms still throbbing from the night before, Elton pulled the pillow out from behind his head and placed it over his eyes. “Would you get some more coke?”

He didn’t see Andreas’ face, but heard him sigh for a long time. Elton set the pillow on his chest and looked at him.

“Please,” was all he could say.

Andreas gravely nodded, and that was that. Later, when he’d brought back a valued bag of cocaine and Elton had made a serious dent in it, the phone rang.

Elton answered it, inhaling harshly, as if his life depended on that one breath. “Hello?”

A series of hiccuping sobs resonated down the line, and reality plunged back, dark. He didn’t know what to say.

“Elton? Is that you?”

“Mm-hm.”

Julianna drew a wavering breath, attempting to gather herself, but her agony poured out again as she gasped, “Are you okay?”

Elton’s own throat tightened, and he dragged a palm down his face. “Are you?”

“No… but what about you? Are you okay?”

“No. No, but… I’m- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t, you couldn’t have done—”

“I could have. I’m really sorry. If I didn’t go out, even if I’d just checked before I went out, I might have been able to help. I might have been able to stop it. He could still be alive if I—”

“You can’t blame yourself. Don’t.”

Elton sighed, shaking his heavy head. He could. Who else was there to blame?

“There was no one there,” Julianna choked.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was Andreas, Sam, and I… That was it. There was nobody else there. Nobody.”

He had tried to make himself attend. He spent days talking himself in and out of it. Out of all the funerals lately, he knew that was one he should have shown his face at. At the very least, he should have done that. After fucking killing him, it was the least he could do. He should have done that.

But he couldn’t.

The guilt was too much.

The thought kept him up at night, picturing himself walking up to the podium, getting there, knees knocking, shirt collar yellowed by sweat, the buttons on the shirt not even done up correctly, and then what? And then… nothing. There was nothing he could say. He’d stammer, he’d get mad, he’d sob, and he’d have to sit back down. A plastic baggie lined with the last remnants of the day’s cocaine would slip out of his pocket and onto the floor as he walked back. He’d inelegantly fumble to pick it up, then he’d return to his seat and scrabble to get it up his nose as fast as possible.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go,” he said. “I wanted to, but— I just couldn’t… I couldn’t.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s fine… I understand.” She broke down again. “I just want him back, I want to wake up and all of this to have just been a really bad dream.”

“Me too.”

“It’s awful. It’s not fair.”

“I know.”

He let her cry, not knowing what else he could say.

“Elton?”

Yes?”

“Call me any time. Doesn’t matter what time it is for me. Okay?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. Yes, and you can do the same to me. I’ll probably be home soon.”

He didn’t know how much help he could be, but he felt obligated to say it.

“I don’t want… I don’t want the same thing happening to you,” Julianna said hesitantly. “I can’t. So, please. Please, be careful, alright? I love you.”

“Alright. I will be careful.”

He smashed the phone with its own receiver after hanging up. After he’d promised her, word for word, that he’d be careful.

+

He didn’t know how many weeks later it was, but he knew there were only two options.

Off himself. Or go back to his house in Berkshire.

The first option was quick and fast. The second meant: carry on as things were, suck up to John—beg for a lifetime of one-sided sex and empty promises back.

He knew which one he’d rather do.

He had no right to complain about how terrible his life was. Not while he was still alive, shovelling coke into his nose.

Not while Warren was in a hole in the ground.

He left it up to fate. The thing that kept doing things to him, that kept taking from him.

He was going to call his house. If no one answered, he’d kill himself there and then. If Dot or someone else answered, he’d kill himself there and then. If John answered, he’d do anything he asked for him to say they were in a relationship again.

He fixed himself a bowl full of all the pills that resided in the cabinets and a fresh bottle of vodka.

He lifted the phone to start the Russian roulette.

Almost laughing, he thought that if anyone was watching, if John was watching, he’d call him pathetic, say what he was doing was attention-seeking.

But nobody was watching.

He dialed and the tone dragged on for almost five whole seconds, the last drone getting cut off midway.

“Hello?”

John’s voice sounded down the wire, and Elton shut his eyes and released a breath. He opened them again to look at the pills he was sure he’d much rather take.

“John.”

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Did you not say you were done with me?” John asked, already in that cocksure tone of voice. “What happened to that?”

“John…”

“Don’t start with the victim routine, Elton, I don’t want to hear it. Everything isn’t about you. No matter what happens, you can’t ever seem to understand that, can you?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Thoughts came at him a mile a minute. He clenched the phone. “Everything. This is all my fault, too… And I’m sorry for acting so abruptly when you—” He couldn’t finish that, he swallowed the words. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m an asshole, I should have listened to you. We should have worked through it, instead of—” 

John was saying nothing.

“Are you there?”

“Yes, Elton.”

“Can you give me another chance?” Elton asked, then went to say that he missed him, but his mouth wouldn’t let him. Instead, he shut his eyes hard, forcing tears to spill and streak down his cheek. “I need you.”

John made a pained sound. “Elton.”

“You have to listen to me,” Elton protested, nervous hand rubbing on his thigh creating a hot friction. He gulped. “You have to. I need you… I fucked up throwing in the towel like that. I fucked up. Please. Let me try, I promise not to fuck things up anymore, I just want to be with you. I need to be.”

Another wounded noise. “Elton.”

“Please. Please. Do you hear that?” Elton frantically lifted the bowl of pills and rattled them next to the receiver, hoping the clinking would be decipherable. “If you don’t, if you won’t have me back, I’m gonna kill myself. That’s a bowlful of pills, and I’ll take every last one of them.”

“God’s sake.”

“I will. I’ll do it right now.”

“Sure you will. What’s gonna make it work this time?”

“I’m gonna take enough. There’s more than enough there to kill me, and _if_ that doesn’t work, I’ll throw myself out that window.” He looked to the window to imagine it, unblinking as the feeling of falling replicated in his stomach. “Or I’ll get a gun from somewhere. Do it that way. I don’t fucking care, either way, some way, I’ll do it.”

“I told you… I didn’t want to hear this shit.”

“I said I’m sorry, John. I know you can do better than me, but I can’t live without you… you’re the only person— I _need_ you. Please…” His head fell forward. “I can’t sleep, every time I shut my eyes, I see him, John. I keep getting these horrible visions. You’re the only one who…”

He trailed off.

John was the only one who could—what? Help? Make it stop? Put up with him?

There was a long delay.

“Please,” he blubbered breathlessly. “I think I’m going to go crazy. I can’t be on my own. I need you. More than ever. Please. I love you. I love you.”

John made another sound, but his tone had changed; not to sympathy, but maybe something close to understanding. “Alright. Of course, darling.”

Relief swallowed the anxiety in his stomach, leaving his body as a thankful, hitching breath. “Really?”

“Yes,” John said, then he sighed heavily. “I shouldn’t have been so cold to you. You were and are currently dealing with a lot. You know I’m always here. I told you before, didn’t I? It was always about you and I. We made it through everything.”

Elton was clinging to the phone. It seemed too good to be true, there had to be a ‘but.’

“I tried to get you to understand,” John said, “I admitted my wrongdoing to you and wanted to get through it, like we always did, but you weren’t willing to.”

“I know, I’m so sorry.”

“It was selfish of you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, pet, well…” Another sigh. “At least you realise that. I shouldn’t be so far from you when you’re going through something like this. I’ll arrange a flight back for you.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You don’t know how much I— I promise I’ll—”

“Ah,” John suppressed. “Just… don’t do anything stupid. Don’t make any promises yet. Get back here and we’ll talk about it then.”

“Yes. Okay. Sorry. Love you.”

John hung up.

Elton sobbed, grabbing his elbows, snot rolling down into his mouth. He curled in on himself and fell forward, face plunging into the cushions. The bowl of pills toppled over, following him into the crevices. He felt so torn.

+

On the private jet, Elton found himself picturing the scenario that was going to arise when he walked through his own front door. He hadn’t set foot there in ages.

John wasn’t going to throw his arms around him and hug him. He wasn’t going to resort to a pile of goo and tell him how much he missed and loved him. His first reaction to seeing him might even be to swing open the front door with a massive grin—at the same time, berating him. 

Without even realising it, his hand was roughly grabbing onto the load of fat that had grown back around his middle. Twisting it, sure to bruise it later. At the same time, he wondered why he was going back to something that made him so miserable. Something that made him question so much. He wondered why he didn’t quit life when he had the chance.

Something told him it was because this was the life he was made to live. He wasn’t meant to be happy. That was a lesson life had tried to teach him again and again. Now, he finally, _finally_ , had learned.

Pete picked him up at the airport and brought him back to the house. Seeing the familiar pathways, the same old trees, the giant statues growing moss that lined the drive, cooked up an additional emotion Elton wasn’t sure how to feel.

He noticed he was nervously fidgeting with the hair bobble still on his wrist. He stopped to pinch his thigh instead. This wasn’t home. He didn’t know if he had one.

When the car rolled up the street to the gate, he heard yelling. Loud and clear.

He tried to work out if it was his imagination until he heard Pete say, “Blimey, they’re still here.”

Elton’s spine tingled.

He leaned, gawking between the front seats.

There was a cluster of people outside his house. Some with cameras, some without. Some had signs that he couldn’t read thanks to his lack of glasses.

When they noticed the car rolling up, they shouted louder.

“What’re they here for?” he asked meekly.

“I’m not sure, sir. They’ve been doing this for a while. For you, obviously. About all I can gather.”

Elton looked to the lock, double checking. He wasn’t sure if they had the capacity to be violent, but, regardless, they were vehement enough to startle him.

“How are we going to get past them?”

“We’ll just keep driving, they’ll move,” Pete said, just as the crowd parted, allowing the vehicle through. “See?”

Elton slumped down in the seat. They couldn’t see him through the glass, but he still felt it was necessary. Cameras were pushing against the glass, shooting in flashes of light.

What was it now?

When they got out, Pete handed him his bags, and he took them in a daze, wheeling around in a circle. He looked off at the blurred swarm of people at the end of the path, behind the gate.

“What is going _on?”_

He trudged up to the door, and it opened on cue.

“Hi, sweetheart.” John said it with an unwarranted sweetness in both his tone and features.

Elton stepped inside, giving a puny smile back. Then his stomach sank again. He gestured behind him. “What’s all that about?”

“Oh, don’t worry about them. I’ll get them moved shortly.”

“But what’re they here for?”

“Don’t know. They’ve been congregating there every day for a few weeks. Judging by their signs, I think they’re worried about you.”

It took Elton a moment to process he wasn’t talking about Warren. They didn’t know about that. He was referring to the Billy Joel kind of worry.

Elton nodded. “Oh…”

“That’s what happens when you give up on your career,” John said with a sad smile.

“I haven—” Elton stopped himself, blankly looking around.

“How was the journey home?”

Elton lifted his shoulder, the corner of his mouth performing a similar motion.

John glowered, taking Elton’s chin. “You look knackered.”

Elton nodded at that. He was, so much so he couldn’t find much of a will to verbally respond.

“Come here.” John fastened his arms around his shoulders. His hold was hard, sharp-edged, but Elton sank into it anyway, too tired to put his own arms around him. He shut his eyes while John swirled his fingers in a spiral on the back of his head, kissing the top of his forehead. Elton puffed a breath out the side of his mouth, feeling yet more tears.

“I did miss you,” John said. “It’s been hard for me, too, being away from you.”

“Really?”

“Of course it has.” John held him at arm’s length. “You really thought that you’d be the only one suffering? And now this, as well. Terrible.”

Elton trailed his eyes away.

“But these things happen,” John carried on. “And there’s nothing more we can do but stick together and move past everything. Put it behind us. You can worry about working later down the line. Right now, I need you just as much as you need me. We need each other.” He reached into his trouser pocket, disclosing a tiny gold chain entwined loosely with his fingers. “I got you this, as a welcome home gift.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Elton whispered. “I don’t deserve—”

“I wanted to,” John said with a steady stare. “I never want to lose you again, and I’ll do anything to show that to you. I’m serious about us. I think we can be okay.”

Elton nodded then moved forward, magnetised, putting his cheek to John’s chest again. John replanted his fingers in his hair, stroking.

“But.”

There was that ‘but.’ It was a long time coming, but there it was.

A stone of worry formed in Elton’s stomach, his muscles tensed around it. The quiet chiming of the necklace against his head was almost like it was taunting him.

“I think we need to put down some… rules and regulations.”

“Like what?” Elton asked, voice watery. He pulled back, grasping a handful of fat at his side.

“Well, for a start, I’d like to propose being truthful with one another. Always.”

Elton nodded. That was reasonable. He hoped the same.

John’s eyes still were fixed on his. “Which means no more fucking around with Bernie.”

The mention of his name dug up deep turmoil. He stepped back from him.

 _“Don’t_ talk about him,” he snapped waveringly. “We- we haven’t talked in— years.”

“Maybe not.” John pocketed the necklace, and stalked forward. “But I know you. And I _know_ that I can’t trust you around him. You’d go back in a second if he wanted anything to do with you.”

“I wouldn’t. He— I hate him.” He said it, and it burned. He swallowed the guilt that blazed up his throat. “You don’t need to worry about that. We aren’t even friends.”

“I’ve read,” John pointed to the stairs, “those diaries up there.” He was smiling, but mad. “I’m not an idiot, Elton. You may think I am—”

He was scared now. “I don’t.”

“You said in those that you were _in_ _love_ with him. You kissed him, for Christ’s sake. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Elton withheld from firing back about his hypocrisy. “No. No, you’re not an idiot, I never said— And I _thought_ I…” He shook his head, omitting the rest. “But I don’t, I didn’t. I’m not in love with him, I’m in love with you…”

John’s dark eyes flickered with additional anger. He seized Elton’s wrist painfully, yanking it up close to his face. “What is this?”

Elton glanced up. “It’s- it’s nothing.”

“How is it _nothing?_ What do you need it for? You haven’t got any hair to tie up.”

“It’s— It was…”

John’s grip on him was crushing now. “Bernie’s?”

Panic weakened Elton’s knees. “He gave me it years ago, it doesn’t— I never—”

“You liar! Admit it.”

“Oh, John… You’re hurting me.”

He squeezed his hand red. “Admit it, and I’ll let go.”

“Admit what?”

“Admit it! Now!”

“What?” he asked, crying.

“Admit you love Bernie!”

“I don’t—”

John’s other fist rocked into his nose so fast and hard he would’ve fallen right on his back if he wasn’t being held up by his left wrist. Blood burst out, coating John’s knuckles, and Elton’s body’s response was to wail out sobbing, though he barely felt a thing.

Stunned, he somehow found his footing a little, and his shaking hand found the blood at his nose. John finally let go.

“I don’t love him,” Elton said wetly, unable to breathe properly through his nose. “I don’t, John, I- I… I love _you_ …”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem with that rule.”

“Okay. I don’t.” He took a gulp of air and pinched himself hard. Hard enough to hurt, and he winced at it, but didn’t stop. Blood was still running from his nose, getting into his mouth, painting his teeth. Wiping at it did nothing. “What if he wants to… to write songs again some day? In the future.”

“You two used to work separately,” John said, wiping his hand against his trousers, “you can do it that way. He can fax them to you. He could post them to you, for all I care. Anything. I don’t want to see him here. I don’t want you talking on the phone. I don’t want any of that.”

Elton wanted to ask if that rule applied to him and the multitude of people he’d slept with. But again, held his tongue.

“That’s fine,” he said.

“And those diaries you have. I want them gone.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

Another wave of despair hit him. “That’s not fair…”

“You wouldn’t want me having anything like that stockpiled in the closet.”

He backed further away. “Some of them are old, John. Some of them don’t have anythi—”

“I don’t care! I don’t think it’s a good thing to do anyway, holding onto shit like that. It’s best to get rid of them all.”

“What do you mean? I’ve had them for years. Can I not put them somewhere else? Storage or something? Please…”

John shook his head. “I want you to destroy them.”

“I can’t!”

John’s eyes were fiery, as was his accusatory tone. “Why?”

“I can’t, you know I like to hold onto things like that… It’s special. It’s—”

“More special than me? Well, I’m trying to help us here, but clearly, if our relationship means so little to you—” John pulled the necklace back out and walked to the kitchen.

Elton followed, like a lost dog, and watched him dangle it over the garbage can.

“I’ll just throw this out and we can forget about the whole thing. I’ll go. You can stay here with your books.”

Elton didn’t give a shit about the necklace, but if it resembled his last chance at a relationship, albeit a miserable one, he didn’t want it to end up in landfill.

“No, John…” He removed his hand from his side to reach for it.

“You either destroy them, or I’m not doing this.”

“Can I not—”

“You have to fucking destroy them!”

Elton’s eyes widened, insides writhing with fear. “Okay! Okay… I’ll do it.”

John’s face softened and he stepped forward.

Elton stickily sniffled, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, and then reached for the jewellery again. John tightened his grasp on it.

“You have to do it first,” John said. “Once you do that, I’ll know you’re as committed to this, to us, as I am. Then you can have it.”

“Okay. Can I do it downstairs? In the—”

“Do it wherever you want, but I want to watch you do it.”

Elton deflated with a breath.

“I can’t trust you not to try to stash a few pages away, Elton, I know you. All of it has to go.”

“Okay.”

Later that evening, when the caretakers had all left, they sat down at the kitchen table to eat dinner that John made, and John asked for the twentieth time when he was going to do it.

Elton didn’t know.

His nose and upper lip were stained, encrusted. He didn’t care enough to do anything about it. His nose hurt now. Dull, repeated pain that didn’t let up. He didn’t take anything for it. He supposed he deserved to feel as awful as he did. He was, however, grateful it wasn’t broken. As far as he could tell.

Then John asked how he was going to do it, and he lurched over the plate of curry with a sadistic glint in his eye, suggesting methods: ‘Burn them? Shred them?’

Elton didn’t know that either. Each thought made his insides twist in different directions. Made him not want to eat anymore than the one forkful he had already forced down. He already regretted what he had eaten. The rest was left.

“When are you going to do it?” John asked again, impatience perceptible in the abrupt way he stood from the table after Elton got up and attempted to casually pad towards the door.

“I don’t know, John,” Elton said tiredly. “Can I not do it tomorrow? I don’t feel—”

“Well, if you’re willing to leave everything overnight, that’s fine.” He lifted the plates. “I know what I’d do. But if you’re okay with leaving it ‘til tomorrow, then…” He shrugged and went to scrape them, then dropped them in the sink. “Just know that I can’t sleep beside someone who doesn’t understand the _importance_ —”

“Fine!” Elton exploded, then amended his demeanour. “God, I’ll do it now.”

They both went to the bedroom. Elton clicked the door open, peering inside. It had been cleaned up since the last time he’d been there. Smelled better. It was dark, took his eyes a moment to adjust. His heart dropped when he saw it.

He looked back to John, eyebrows drawn and twitching.

His journals. They were all set out on the bed. Calculative, neat rows.

“I thought I’d take the time to make it easier for you,” John said, seemingly unable to recognise how sinister the premeditiveness was.

Elton was shaking his head. “I don’t want to do this, John,” he said weakly. “I promise, I won’t write in them anymore, just let me keep them…”

“Well, you are. You’re doing it.” John shut the door. “Do it now. Or I will.”

Elton weighed that up. He didn’t want to do it, but he certainly didn’t want John doing it.

He drew a breath and let it go, trying to convince himself that letting go of them, all those pages, everything attached, could be good for him. Tried to see John’s point. His brain was hard to convince, and the tears in his eyes spilled over.

“Quit blubbering. You are such a big baby. ‘Big’ being the right word. Give it a rest.”

“I’ve had these since I was a kid,” Elton said, touching the worn cover of one he distinctly remembered getting for his 14th birthday. The fresh tears wet the blood and he could taste it again.

“I don’t care. It’s stupid. Look at how upset you are over books.” John set a hand on his shoulder, striving to be comforting as his tone switched. “That’s not healthy, sweetheart. You’re not well. You need to do this. It’s the first step in getting us through this. Do it for me. For us. It’ll help you.”

Elton sat on the bed. He lifted one. The latest. The one that had caused all of this.

He flicked through the pages and they splayed open on one that caused him to cry harder.

The goofy drawing John Lennon had made for him, a happy dog with glasses staring back at him, that he’d attentively glued to the page with all the TLC of a child crafting a scrapbook.

He held the book out, jaw trembling. He didn’t expect John to care, be struck with empathy, and he wasn’t.

“Tear it.”

“No…”

“Do it now! Hurry up! If you cared, you’d do it right now!” He was shouting, spatters of spit flecking from his mouth imagery of the venom he was spitting. “Do it right now! Do it!”

His hand clapped the back of his head and Elton drew a lungful of air. The scare it gave him, more so than the pain, impelled his fingers to rip the sheet at the same time, tearing it down the middle. Half of the dog’s face and the words ‘friend, John’ were in his hand.

“Good.” John’s hand gently touched the spot he’d just smacked. “That wasn’t hard, was it?”

It was. It was. It washed him with a new wave of guilt and grief that closed his throat. He crumpled the torn off piece, aware that would appease John, but that wasn’t why he did it. He wanted to express some of the good it had left, try to absorb some of it as it leaked from its frayed edge.

He could almost feel its warmth.

“Come on,” John’s voice said, piercing it, pulling him back into the reality of the situation.

Elton swallowed, looking around the room that still didn’t even have a light on.

“Do the rest of them.”

+

“There. That wasn’t so difficult.”

John said that as they both stared at the massacre of papers that now took up the space on the bed, their disfigured and mangled covers lying in a separate heap on the floor.

Elton tried to void himself of thought, revoke them to a similar spot as his now deadened emotions were. His body felt hollow.

John clasped the necklace around his neck, as if that was supposed to make it feel worth it. It was cold, just like the gesture, and though it was light and flimsy, it held the weight of a medal. One he didn’t feel proud of earning.

They both sat on the bed after John had stood over him, instructing him on disposing of the remains in a trash bag that was then left outside the bedroom door to be collected by one of the housekeepers the next day.

“Doesn’t that feel better?” John said, rubbing his hand along Elton’s arm. He kissed his cheek.

Elton hummed, and the sound reflected neither agreeing or any form of emotion.

“I know it’s hard now. But you’ll see it was for the greater good eventually.”

Elton emitted the same sound.

John twisted the butterfly ring slightly, as if fine-tuning it. “I see you kept the ring on.”

Elton nodded.

John kissed his temple. “I knew you would.”

Elton forged a smile. He knew he would, too.

+

He stripped to his underwear, deciding to take a needed nap after John got up and left.

He didn’t say where he was going.

Elton didn’t awaken until the next day.

There was a subtle knock on the door and Elton pushed himself onto his elbow, hair sticking up in odd angles. A stray sheet of paper was stuck to his cheek. He peeled it off.

“Come on in,” he said, not caring who it was.

Dot came around the door in her coat with a dolefully weak smile.

Elton haphazardly pulled some of the duvet around him and twitched his lips, attempting to smile back, but he was aware it probably didn’t deliver.

She looked like she wanted to do her usual ‘how are you?’ greeting, but she was holding it back.

“Oh, love.” She walked over and cupped his cheek. “Your face, darling. What’d he do to you?”

His insides tensed. He shook his head. Unable to say.

“Oh, goodness… Here,” she said softly, dipping into her handbag. It took Elton a hard blink to register what she was handing him.

No longer caring that he was in nothing but his underwear, fully exposed, he shot upright and slung his legs over the side of the bed, knocking more spare clumps of paper to the floor. He looked to the door, making sure it was shut. He took the journal from her.

“How’d you get this? Where— _How?_ ”

“John was talking about getting you to do that…” she said. “He was hell-bent the other night. I hoped I’d have a chance to talk to you before— and, believe me, I tried to talk him out of it, but…” She frowned. “I managed to sneak one… while he was laying them all out.”

Elton dragged his fingers across the distressed leather cover.

“I know it’s not very much, considering…”

“No…” Elton opened the book to the front page. The first line written contained: _1967._ He saw that much before he slowly shut the book again. “No, it’s… Thank you.”

She offered another sugar-sweet smile, and Elton threw his arms around her.

She hugged him tight. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s not your fault, darling,” Elton told her, pulling himself from the hug and pushing a hand through his hair. “It’s not.”

Dot perched beside him, smoothing her skirt. “I hate to see the way he affects you.”

Elton sighed.

“You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, but there’s only so much I can do,” she said. “I’ve been in similar situations in my time. And I know it’s a daunting thing, even thinking of ditching what’s familiar to you, putting yourself back out there… Believe me. But you deserve true happiness, sweetpea, and you’re not gonna get it from him. Look at your little face. All of you…”

“I used to get it from him,” Elton said, resting his head on her shoulder to shield the emotion creeping onto his face.

“You did, but the person he is nowadays is who he always was. You’re only getting to see it now. He thinks he has you under his thumb…” She clasped her hand gently, as if catching a mouse. “He’s not going to go back and become the person you thought you knew now, sweetheart. He gets what he wants being the way he is, he isn’t going to change. He has you ‘round his little finger, and it’s not your fault, of course. He’s… manipulative. And damn good at it.”

“Sometimes he’s not like that.”

“He is _always_ like that. Him being sweet is a front. He’s hurting you more than he ever helps you.”

Something was starting to click. He knew he was manipulative. He knew all of this, deep down.

“If he cared about you at all, he’d be willing to change. He’d get the help he needs. Because, trust me, he needs help, darling. There is rarely ever anything good to come from a man like that. He’s disturbed in some way or another. People aren’t made that way. People don’t treat the ones they love the way he treats you. He wouldn’t be making you rip up things that are sentimental to you, love. He wouldn’t hit you.”

“Well… then no one’s ever gonna love me.”

She put an arm around him, gave him a gentle squeeze. “That’s not true.”

He didn’t want to argue with her, so he sighed again.

“You shouldn’t be walking around on eggshells to make sure he’s happy. That’s the way he wants it, that’s what makes him happy, but that’s no life for you.”

“I can’t _be_ alone. I’ve told you that before. A hundred times. I can’t.”

“You wouldn’t have to be. You’d find someone else, no problem. You are far too young to resort to this for the rest of your life.”

Elton nodded, not sure why.

“Hm? What about Bernie? I thought you two were always awfully suited, you brought out the best in each other. I always thought something more would’ve came of that. Maybe that’s just me being old and silly… Where’s he been in all of this?”

Elton collapsed against her, weeping.

+

When Dot left to do her duties, Elton noticed a pair of glasses on the nightstand, folded, still stained with petrol-like splotches from tears from years before. He stopped cutting up cocaine to put them on, then emerged from the cover of his room in need of something to drink. Whiskey was the perfect counterpart to feeling sorry for yourself. He poured himself a glass then decided to take the bottle instead. He stood in the centre of the living room, drinking it.

She was right.

He didn’t want to live bending to John’s every will.

Not anymore.

No matter how many times he came to that conclusion, no matter how many times he told himself he was sick of it and done taking it, he always went back. No matter how bad things were, when they got to the lowest end of low. He went back for what he used to think was love. Thinking he could survive off the scraps of affection he threw his way. And, like a starving person, like a dog, he devoured and scavenged for them, made them enough to satiate him.

In reality, he was still starving.

He knew it wasn’t love.

This house, his relationship, walking back into had felt like self-admission to a prison that didn’t have any wardens or guards, the cell he was in didn’t even have a lock. But the slivers of affection he craved and depended on were the steel bars, keeping him there.

Anything was better than this.

He was looking at himself in the colossal antique mirror that reflected the whole living room. He looked like he’d been through a war. His arms and legs were lacerated, spotted with bruises. His hair looked horrendous— _Who cares about your hair? It’s falling out anyway._ His nostrils were ringed with dried blood. His upper lip, dyed a dark blackish red. Even parts of his scraggly beard were stained with it. His eye sockets were grey. Perhaps a war was exactly what he had been through. One that had to end once and for all.

The word ‘idiot’ that John liked to throw his way so often was applicable to him. Not for the trivial things John used it for. But for this, he thought. For never fully realising that the bars were more than wide enough to get through.

In his drunken clarity, blood rushing, he smashed the now-empty bottle against the mirror, shattering it with a crack that resonated in the high ceilings, its shards clattered to the floor, light from the windows reflecting in them.

None of this was real.

None of it.

No. More. John. Bullshit.

He snapped the newest gift from his neck with a swift tug, dropping it onto the mix of shards of glass.

This was bullshit.

John didn’t love him.

He probably never did. No, he _never_ did. Even when things were good.

He showered him with ‘love’ and gifts every single time he wanted to apologise, every time he wanted to butter him up, glaze over whatever had happened, but then he’d cut off the supply like poison to a vein, then dangle it over Elton’s head as something to strive for. His reward.

Elton’s skin was crawling with electricity and anger. He’d never felt so furious, so stupid, or so certain ever in his life.

And it wasn’t just the alcohol.

He went to the hallway, dragging pictures from the walls as he went, the strings that held them snapping as he trailed them down and threw them to the floor. He bashed the whiskey bottle into other pieces of art: imperious, dumb photos of himself; through paintings; ornaments, destroying every one of them. He took the corner of a frame and cracked it against the case that displayed his Pinball Wizard shoes, more glass spraying across the floor in deafening detonations.

“What are you doing?”

Elton didn’t turn to face him or give him an answer. He went to the kitchen, slinging open cupboards and drawers, pulling out all the innards.

“Are you having an episode?” John said tersely as he followed him. “Is that what this is? Should I make a call?”

“Fuck off, John. Don’t push me.”

“Do I need to take you to get seen to? Christ. Look at the state of you this morning. Get some clothes on you. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re destroying the fucking house. What _is_ wrong with you?”

“As you once said, John, it’s _my_ fucking house.” He broke a plate on the floor. “I can do what I want.” Another, smashing around his bare feet. “I can do as I please.”

“You’re fucking insane. You’re neurotic. Is it because you feel guilty for what you did?”

The silence that followed screeched in his ears.

“What?”

“You heard me,” John said. “What you did.”

“I hope to God you’re not going to say what I think you are.”

“If you think you know, that tells me you _know_ what you did.”

Elton’s hand reached into the open drawer, brandishing a knife. He gritted his teeth hard. “I will fucking kill you.”

“Oh! Funny how you think I’m so cruel to you… And yet you’re the one threatening me. To kill me, in fact. And you’re destroying our house. _And_ you threatened to kill yourself if I wouldn’t forgive you. Seems to me like you’re the abusive one.”

The sweat in Elton’s hand was making his grip slippery.

“What the fuck do you have to forgive me for? And it’s not your house!”

“Mm-hm. _You_ killed Warren.”

Elton threw the knife onto the floor and grabbed a plate, hurling it across the room. It flew past John’s head and cracked against the wall.

“I did not,” Elton said past jagged breaths, “kill Warren.”

“Maybe not in the way you’re currently trying to do to me. But you did kill him.”

“He- he did drugs _long_ before he met me.”

“Yeah. And you two getting together was like putting a burning house out with gasoline. It was bound to happen to one of you. Too bad it had to be him, he was actually a nice guy.”

A pang shot through him. “He fucking hated you.”

Elton threw another plate and this one smashed against a fake sunflower sitting in a pot, both shattering, pebbles and glass dispersing.

“Of course he told you that,” John sneered. “It’s no wonder you got on so well. Both liars, and junkies. Match made in Heaven. Maybe Hell.”

Elton threw two plates at once; one had bad aim and exploded around John’s feet. The other, he had to swerve his body quickly to avoid getting it in the face. It shattered on the door frame behind him.

“You throw one more fucking plate at me. Just one more. I dare you.”

He was really willing it. And Elton was more than willing to give it to him.

Helena was standing in the living room, eyes like startled saucers as she pretended to clean a Beethoven bust that was lying on its side with its head ruptured open. Elton made a point of looking over John’s shoulder at her, hinting to him they weren’t alone.

Genuine fear. And just to see what he’d do.

John picked up on that, and his face changed.

“Come on, Elton. Enough of this,” he pleaded quietly.

Elton dislodged another plate.

“Don’t. Don’t do it, darling, please.”

Elton tossed it to the floor with another forceful crash, then continued with the rest of the plates. John stood behind and spectated while he tirelessly cleared out cupboard after cupboard, leaving the floor almost invisible under assorted fragments and powdered shivers of glass.

He stepped over it carefully, but no matter how nimbly he tried, splinters still plucked at the soles of his feet. But he continued, jiving past John and walking out to the living room.

“There. Has that made you happy? Do you not wanna rid us of mugs, too?”

Elton stopped, pivoting. The particles of glass embedding themselves in his feet stung like hell.

“No. I want rid of you.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath. What did I do? I didn’t do anything.”

 _“Really?_ What haven’t you fucking done?”

“If you consider buying you presents—”

“No.” Elton shut his eyes to articulate his words, shoulders rising with a much-needed breath. “That’s horse shit, John. And you know it. You don’t fucking love me. And I’m sick— _sick_ —of hoping that one day you will. And I’m sick of you pretending you do. You shouldn’t have to keep _reminding_ me you love me, I should know. Look at my fucking face!”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes, I am,” Elton said. “But I am not stupid. I am not a fucking idiot. Not anymore. I’m done with your fucking shit. I can’t _take_ it anymore. I refuse. I’m tired. I am _tired.”_

“Come on. How many times have I heard that one? You said it yourself. You need me.”

“Wrong, I thought I did. Turns out I need you like a fucking hole in the head. Think about it. What could I possibly need you for? You made me destroy something I fucking loved, and—”

“You’re still crying about that?”

“And for what, John?” Elton’s blood was gushing loudly in his ears. “I want you to get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“Right. Until you change your mind and call me, crying, begging for me—”

“Do you wanna see how fucking serious I am?”

Elton hurtled towards the glass door that led into the back garden, not waiting for John’s response. He stepped across the gravel awkwardly, trying to preserve the scathed bottoms of his feet, then stood in the middle of the grass.

He unclasped the reed necklace that was still hanging around his neck.

“Look.”

He held his arm out, jingling it.

“Ah, very good,” John said, slowly nodding. He leant against the door. “Is that gonna solve your problems?”

“Hopefully it’ll be a start.”

“If you do that, I’ll leave. You look terrible, Reg. Nobody wants to see you like that. Get inside.”

Elton wound the chain up in his hand and turned his palm around, looking at the pendant in it.

Any fleeting moment he had thought of getting rid of it in the past, he had imagined it as a grand, dramatic gesture: something that reflected the significance of disposing of something that apparently reflected the person he’d been with for the majority of his adult life. Something that was a representation of their relationship as a whole. Hurling it into the ocean.

The sun gleamed off it, blinding.

“Look, John,” he said, reflecting the light against his black suit.

“I’m looking,” John lilted, squinting when Elton shone the ray in his eye.

Intoxicated, and emboldened by the rays the sun was beating down over his entire body, its fire causing him to sweat profusely, Elton closed his eyes. The warmth, it was cleansing. Forgiving.

He curved his arm back then catapulted it forward, sending the piece of jewellery high into the air, almost in slow motion. It dove over the other side of the wall like it wanted to go.

Elton exclaimed, no words, only sound that was relief washing out every corner of him, and it was warmer than anything the sun gave. He shot his hands in the air and teetered back and forth, laughing almost maniacally, hysterically, but it was pure, real relief. And nothing more. Definitely nothing less. He could have sworn he felt something inside lift, leave.

John lethargically turned away, shouting back, “The help are fucking watching you.”

“So?” Elton spread his arms out. “I don’t care. Let them.”

+

A leaf fell onto his lap.

He had taken refuge below the shade of a thick-trunked tree and sat there for what seemed like hours, until coldness crept in. 

He plucked the splinters of glass from his feet. Doing so, he noticed a small cut on his left hand, between his forefinger and thumb. It didn’t hurt.

If the help had been watching, he did not care. He hoped they were. At least, he hoped Dot had.

The back of his head rested against the soft, foam-like bark, his ankles lay crossed. His soft chest, the rolls on the side of his belly were exposed, but he didn’t have the slightest care in the world. And it wasn’t just from still being drunk. He didn’t know what it was. It was good.

His eyes were closed until he looked to the pool. A dead orange and black butterfly floating on the surface of the water made him look at the butterfly on his left middle finger. He flickered it above the rest, laughed a little.

It was a nice ring. Definitely something he would’ve chosen for himself.

But by fucking God was he sick of looking at it.

He twisted and worked it off his finger. It was stubborn, but it gave, leaving a circumferencing dent. He didn’t give it a second glance before chucking it across the grass. It bounded then skipped off the stone before diving into the pool and sinking.

Another wash of relief rested him further against the tree. Unloading ties.

He plucked a dandelion from the sod, the only one there was, and held it up to the dropping sunlight, squinting one eye shut to focus on it. The sun gave it a feeble halo.

Clouds were starting to collect overhead, grey and heavy, trying to block out the light. The branches above him that rustled with the wind sweeping through reminded him of what their name was.

“Beech tree,” he said, out loud but barely, as he twirled the stem around. His fingertips turned sticky and he dropped the dandelion to his bare thigh, rubbing his thumb over the milky sap, making it disappear. He could still feel it.

The climbing susurration of the leaves above reminded him of something else.

Someone.

Bernie.

He laughed a little. Cried.

Surprisingly, John hadn’t come back to lock the door as Elton assumed he would.

On that stroke of luck, he headed for the door. He opened it slowly and padded through the living room littered with destruction, then went up the stairs as quietly as he could.

John was still there. He could feel it. He could be anywhere.

Elton went to his room and barricaded himself inside, pushing the piano stool up to the door. That wouldn’t stop a cat getting in, nevermind John. He pulled the chaise out and pushed with all his body’s might, bumping it up against the stool. There was nothing stopping the doorknob from turning, but at least the clatter of the door hitting furniture would alert him. If it came to that.

He crawled into bed and got below the sheets, bunched up tight to his chest, and lifted the spared journal from where he’d left it on the pillow.

It was breaking tradition, breaking habit, to want to read it. But this might be the last chance he had to. He turned the book open to a random page.

_June 25th, 1967._

_Think I’m finally getting somewhere. Met this really nice guy called Bernie from the ad in the paper. He has some really good lyrics. It’s crazy how good they are actually. We went and got coffee!! He paid for it, which I thought was sweet. He didn’t have to do that. He said he likes my singing voice. I’m writing this on the train right now. I think we’re gonna get along really well. I can feel it._

He cried a little, sniffling, and turned another chunk of pages.

_December 14th, 1967._

_Bernie is my best friend in the whole world! I haven’t known him very long, but I’ve never loved anyone so much before. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. Not that that’s a hard thing to accomplish, but still. Better yet, today he said I was his best friend too. I love him. I LOVE HIM!! I can’t wait to see him again tomorrow._

This one was accompanied by a wiggly smiley face, and it wasn’t until he noticed the drawing that he could remember writing it. Slightly drunk, but mostly giddy with excitement. 20 years old, sitting in his childhood bedroom.

His eyes flicked across to the coke sitting on his nightstand. Two lines he’d already laid out. The rest of the bag right next to it. He blew the congestion and blood mix from his nose onto the quilt to be able to snort it better.

He hated this. He already hated himself as it was, he hated himself more than anything else in existence if he were being truly honest, but this made it worse. This, what he was doing, what he couldn’t stop doing, what was killing him, was what made Bernie leave. It was what made Bernie hate him.

He didn’t even want to do it right now, not really, but he had to. Crying.

After, he picked up the phone and hesitated, the blank drone filling the air.

Was it stupid?

He spun the number in, regardless of if it was or not.

A click.

He drew a breath.

The voicemail message remained unchanged. The sound of Bernie’s voice, even though recorded several years ago, was enough to reopen the floodgates.

_Beep._

“Bernie.” It felt strange to say his name out loud again. “I… know you hate me. You’ve every right to. I just wanted to tell you that I don’t hate you, Bernie. I didn’t mean any part of what I said. I’m sorry for all of it. Everything. I don’t have any grudges against you. I was angry at you, for a _really_ long time, but now I know you were only trying to help. I was just… projecting. I hated myself. I still do, I always have, but I hate what I’ve become even more. What I wouldn’t give to go back for _one_ more day with you… Remember that day your chickens got out? I do…” He shut his eyes with a defeated exhale, and pain shot through his chest. “And… I’m— I’m going to get help. I’m going to do it, so please come back. I’m— God, I’m not just saying it for you to like me again, I’m really doing it, I’m doing it for me. This isn’t fun anymore. It stopped being fun a long time ago. And…” His thoughts were scattered. He sniffled. “I just miss you. And I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

He hung up and cried. Then he redialed.


	21. If A Phoenix Bird Can Fly Then So Can I

+

The furniture barricade at the door shifting with a thud woke him from a dream about the same thing.

Elton jolted, catapulted right back into an envelope of fear and confusion constricting around him. Much more tangible than the feeling from the dream. He was already panting and sweating profusely. 

“Go away, John.”

He realised he wasn’t lying in bed. He was on the floor, and his back was tight and aching. His head was thumming with a painful course of blood. He didn’t know where he was briefly because he was entombed in a stack of records, a fort, that he didn’t remember building and didn’t know how to go about deconstructing to avoid damaging them.

The door hit the furniture with another whack.

He scrambled, propping himself up on his palms. The sound of his breathing was filling the tomb he’d made. Cracks of light slipping through made it safe to assume it had to be the next morning.

The necklaces were gone. So was the butterfly.

That wasn’t a dream.

“I’m serious, John, go away. Go! Leave me alone for a while, alright? I’m— I’ll—”

“Reggie?”

_“Bernie?”_

He must’ve still been dreaming.

“Yeah. What’s blocking the door?”

“Uh, chairs. Push it.”

Furniture scratching across the floorboards, then footsteps. Bernie’s slight laugh.

“Are you inside that?”

Elton lay back down with a groan, curling up. He wasn’t prepared for this. He wasn’t. He wished it was a dream.

There was movement: a few records acting as a roof to his sarcophagus of misery were diligently lifted off.

A new rush of light made him squint.

Bernie’s face ducked into view.

“What are you doing here?”

“You called me yesterday,” Bernie said.

“Right.” Elton sat up, rubbing the newfound pain in his head. “Don’t tell me I did something stupid. What did I say?”

“No,” Bernie said, “you didn’t say anything stupid.” He looked off, then back. “I’m… sorry.”

Elton shook his head.

“No,” Bernie said, “I’m _so_ sorry, man. So sorry. It was the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have kept trying.”

“No. You had to do what you had to do.”

“Not for almost five years,” Bernie said defiantly.

“I never would’ve listened.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. I’m… glad to see you now. I just wish you would’ve called before coming… I’m a fucking mess.”

“Well, are you going to come out of your fortress?”

“Don’t think I can be bothered.”

“Sure you can. Did you sleep in there?”

“Yes.”

Elton arose with a sigh, then carefully stepped out. The cold of the real world hit him, prickling his skin.

Bernie was frowning. “Is that… _blood_ on your face?”

Elton nodded, touching the crust at his nose.

“God.” Bernie winced. His eyes tentatively traced him up and down.

Then they stared at each other for a few moments. Elton wasn’t sure of what to say. Or do. He kept looking away.

Bernie looked… There were no words. For how _great_ he looked. Or the pain on his face.

No words.

He wondered if he should say, ‘Well, as you can see, things haven’t been great for me.’

But that was obvious.

Wondered if he should say, ‘He punched me.’

But that was obvious, too. It hadn’t been the first time either.

“What happened down there?” Bernie asked dryly. He swallowed. “Looks like a bomb went off.”

Elton only gave him a look.

Bernie shook his head with a long sigh.

A knot twinged in Elton’s lower back. _“Ah—_ Is he still down there?”

“Don’t know, didn’t see him.”

Elton nodded. They gazed at each other again.

Elton felt himself welling up. A deep feeling was filling him. No words.

Bernie took a step forward and hugged him. Hugged him as tight as he could allow himself to without feeling like he was causing pain.

“I’m sorry,” Bernie whispered, cradling his head. “I’m really sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

Elton nodded, arms wrapping around him. He inhaled deeply. Bernie smelled the same.

“Never again,” Bernie added. “I don’t know what I was thinking leaving you with him. You look…” He took a breath, shook his head. “You look… dreadful. And I don’t mean that in—”

“I know you don’t.”

“So sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

They hugged it out, sat on the bed afterwards.

Bernie swiped at his eyes. Eyes that were still pooled with so much. So much guilt. Worry.

“I did have to leave,” Bernie said eventually. “I couldn’t stand watching… But I should have come to you sooner. Called you. I thought I was doing good, I thought I was— I thought you’d— But I didn’t help anything.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” Elton stressed weakly. “It’s okay. I promise.”

“But it’s not.” Bernie turned, bringing his feet up onto the bed, and set his hand on Elton’s. “I don’t hate you, Reg. I never hated you, that’s not why…”

Elton nodded.

“And I didn’t mean to be so… overbearing at times. I _love_ you.”

Elton shut his eyes, draining a breath. “I know. I know you do.”

“You know I love you, and he doesn’t. You don’t _need_ this, Elton.”

“I know.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Elton shook his head. “I don’t know…” He swallowed. “I don’t want to be with him. I know that.”

Bernie nodded, swiping his thumb back and forth.

“I _can’t_ be with him… He’s… I don’t love him either.”

Bernie nodded again.

“But I don’t know how—” Elton gulped, stifling crying. “I don’t know what he’ll do to me. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here… I’m scared.” He looked at him directly.

“I know. We’ll do it, though. We will.”

“I don’t want him hurting you…”

“He won’t.”

His heart rate surged, his hands grew clammy. “He will. Trust me… He’s— If he knows you’re here, he’ll hurt you. You’re going to have to leave. I’ll—”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then he’ll hurt both of us. That’s why I put those against the door, he— I know it. I made him really mad, he’s going to kill me.”

“He’s not. It’s okay. Promise. Look, we’ll get out of this. You’re going to get out of here. I won’t let him do a thing.”

Elton faltered. “You can’t stop him.”

Bernie lifted his hand and held it to his chest. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Nothing. I’m promising you that. Nothing.”

The fear in his gut knew that wasn’t true. But Bernie’s sweetness, his earnestness, made Elton nod his head.

“What time is it?” Elton asked.

Bernie looked to his watch, still not letting go of his hand. “It’s about ten.”

Elton groaned. “Shit. I need to tell Dot not to try to clean up the mess I made. Any of them.”

“You did that?”

“Yeah.” He hesitantly pointed to the bottle of whiskey and the bag of coke. “And I’m done with all of this, Bernie. I don’t want to go on like this. I’m done with all of it.”

Bernie’s thumb was brushing over his hand again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, but.” Elton closed his eyes. The next thing, he wasn’t sure if he should say, but when he did, it was mainly a whisper. “But you don’t… _love_ me… like I love you.”

Bernie’s thumb stopped moving, but his hand remained there. Elton didn’t look at him.

“Okay?” he continued. “You don’t, and I know that. But I… I’m in love with you. I’m not just saying it now because you’re here and— I- I’ve always loved you. I’ve loved you every single day. I know it’s stupid and I know it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t have to, I… I don’t know why I told you that, actually. But I hope we can still be friends. I’m more than happy if we can just be friends again.”

“We never stopped being friends,” Bernie said.

Elton looked at him finally. Bernie’s eyes were clear, solid. Positive.

“That’s another reason I came,” he said.

“Ugh. What else did I say to you over the phone?”

“You really don’t remember? You left a hell of a lot of messages.”

Elton’s face tightened in a grimace, and he dropped his forehead to his hand. The clock ticking in the background went on. Loudly. Then it seemed to stop.

“You said you loved me.”

Elton looked up again.

“You said that,” Bernie said, trying and failing to keep constant eye contact. “You said that last night, as well. And I… Well, I love _you._ I… I love you. Too.”

Bernie’s face didn’t alter, he didn’t look like he was about to burst out laughing. He looked like he was embarrassed, or maybe just being vulnerable. Elton would’ve hugged him if this wasn’t the topic of conversation. His own skin was tingling. Heat was rushing to his cheeks. His stomach, _alive_ with butterflies.

He stared him out, trying to get him to crack. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re _in love?_ With me?”

Bernie snorted, his own face fanning a gentle shade of pink. “Don’t make this any more awkward than it has to be.”

“Don’t make it awkward? You’re fucking with me, Bernie. You’re straight.”

“You don’t know that, I never said that.”

“So you’re gay?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

Elton stayed quiet for a while.

“Are you okay?”

“No. Yeah. Yeah. I’m just… trying to… make sense. I can’t believe you said that.”

“Listen, I… I don’t know about all that, I don’t know how I see myself, but what I do know is, how I see you… I love you. The same way you love me. I think. I’ve known for a while, how I felt. I’ve been thinking about it, trying to… work it out with myself. With— It’s been… weird, man.”

They both laughed a little.

“Just because we’ve been friends for so long,” Bernie explained. “It’s been weird.”

“How long?” Elton asked. _How, full stop,_ he thought.

Bernie puffed a stream of air out the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know. Few years? Ten, maybe?”

“Oh, fuck off!” Elton laughed.

“What?”

“Well, firstly, ten is not a few. Secondly… Come _on._ You haven’t fancied me for ten bloody _years._ You’re trying to be funny!”

“I’m not. I’m serious.” Bernie patted his pockets. “Sorry, I forgot to bring the documents that prove it.”

“Fuck off! So, you’re saying… all this time… And you just didn’t say anything either?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Don’t ask me why. I’ve been trying to process how I felt, and— Then I didn’t know how to tell you. When. If. I had a girlfriend, too, if you remember.”

“Sorry about that…” Elton said quietly, not needing to be much more explicit. “Being rude, when…”

Bernie winced, shaking his head. “Nah.”

It was quiet for a few seconds until Elton jolted forward with a wave of overeagerness that made Bernie jump. They laughed again.

“So when we kissed…?” he said. “You… remembered that?”

“‘Course I did. I wasn’t that drunk.”

His mind whirred. “I thought you didn’t want to. Remember, that is.”

“I thought about it all the time,” Bernie said. His thumb went back to swiping back and forth. “All the time. There were so many more times when I wanted to. Things were so complicated. But all I knew was… I care about you. More than anyone, or anything. More than that, even. I wanted to… take all of this pain away from you, and every time I seen you, knowing I could do nothing to stop you from hurting in all the ways that you are, it killed me.”

“But I was so rotten to you.”

“But you were hurting. And I understood that.”

“That doesn’t excuse the things I said or did to you.”

“Maybe not, but it was a reason why. I understood it. And I knew you were sorry. I knew it was only because you were so hurt. And the drugs don’t help. I saw the stuff about you on the TV, in the paper. Eventually, I had to stop looking.”

Elton let out a pained groan.

“They can bring out the worst in anybody, Elton.”

“Certainly do for me,” Elton muttered, staring blankly at nothing.

“Drugs are all well and good until… until they take you over.”

“Yeah,” Elton said. “They took me over. I think I knew it, too, for some time… I just couldn’t admit it. To myself, or out loud.”

“Well, you’re doing both right now.”

“Yeah.” He supposed that was true. He wasn’t sure how to feel.

Bernie’s warm hands held both of his cold ones now, holding them together. “I feel like I can help you go forward… show you that it doesn’t have to be like this. I’m gonna help you get to the point where you see how… how wonderful of a person you are. How strong you are. How brave. And- and hopefully, get you to the point where you’re not hurting so much. To a point where you want to live. Maybe, hopefully, even learn to love life. There were so many nights where I wanted it to be the one where I came in to you, told you all of this, and we just packed your bags, and left. No looking back. But there’s no point in worrying about that now. Because today’s the day we’re going to do it.”

Elton choked back sobbing, from all of it being too much—dreamlike euphoria. And from the pit of despair still festering inside of him. All he could do was nod.

+

Every time he thought of it, his heart leapt up.

But what did that mean now? What could it mean?

What now?

He’d cleaned the blood from his face. Taken a whole shower, in fact.

Now, he was watching Bernie deftly skitter around the room, fetching clothes and stuffing them into a bag. It filled him with a feeling of déjà vu. And a mixture of being at ease and dread all at once.

His hopes, he tried to keep down. They hadn’t made it out the door yet.

He’d told Bernie he wanted help. Needed it. He was sure of that, the realisation was clear and had raised its ugly head high enough that he could no longer deny it. And no longer wanted to.

They’d officially talked it over and agreed to go back to Bernie’s house, then sort it out from there. Bernie talked about therapists, psychiatrists. Rehab. But as much as he now knew it was what he needed to do—every single one of those—changing and breaking habits was a hard thing to do. Changing at all was a hard thing to do. It was daunting, a challenge: possibly too hard for him to accomplish. It felt easier to ignore things and hope they’d go away on their own, fix themselves. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He had to bite the bullet. At least, try.

“Here.” Bernie threw over a red t-shirt and a similar but not matching in colour pair of velour tracksuit bottoms.

“Oh, you’re having me matching, are you?”

“Almost. How are you not freezing?”

“Dunno,” Elton said, lifting up the t-shirt and uncrumpling it. The motif said ‘NEW YORK CITY’. He felt the fabric with an absent-minded fondness, then was panged with melancholy. He shifted it, pinning a hand to his hip. “I didn’t think you’d want me putting any clothes on.” He shuffled, waggling his eyebrows. “Is this not doing anything for you?”

Bernie clicked his tongue, amusedly rolling his eyes. “Is this all I’m gonna hear now?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Bernie harrumphed as he pushed a final article of clothing into the overstuffed bag and patted it twice, before hucking it across the room to land at the door. “Get dressed, come on.”

Elton pulled his t-shirt on and stood up to put the bottoms on. “Did you get my toothbrush?”

“Yes,” Bernie said, like an overtired mother. He pointed to the satchel lying next to the travel bag he’d thrown. “It’s in there.”

“Is my—”

“Reg, absolutely everything you need is in there.”

Elton smiled thinly, wobbling back and forth as he said, in a high-pitched voice, “In the bag _you_ bought me?”

“Yes,” Bernie said, trying to seem annoyed but the smirk playing on his face betrayed him. “Anything else, we can worry about it later.”

Elton continued in the same silly voice: “Thank _you.”_

“You’re welcome. Packing your bags is always my role in these getaways. I’m quite good at it by now.”

Elton lifted his satchel off the floor, hoisting it onto his back and pulling out the straps. “You don’t have to do it, but I do appreciate it.”

“I know.” Bernie grabbed the other bag then the door handle, pulling it ajar. “I don’t mind at all. Now, let’s go. Let’s get _out_ of here.”

Elton felt the urge to take his hand, but he stopped himself. It might be too early for that. Plus, Bernie’s closest hand was laden with a very heavy bag.

“Running away, are we?”

Elton’s legs almost buckled, instinctive panic and need to disguise what was happening taking hold.

“No!”

John was stood there, arms crossed, for God knew how long, ready to ambush. He had probably heard everything.

“So that’s it, you’re off. After destroying our house?”

“It’s not your house,” Bernie said casually.

Elton’s stomach twisted, eyes going wide to look at him.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” John said.

“I am. This is my business just as much as it’s yours or his.”

“You haven’t been here, or shown the slightest bit of interest in him for, what is it now, five years? How’d he rope you in this time? Was it the old woe is me, crying down the phone bit? That’s a good one.”

Elton dropped his head pitifully, exhaling slowly. His grip on his backpack slacked.

“Look at it.” John pointed at him with a haughty laugh. “It knows exactly what I’m talking about. He did do that to you, didn’t he?”

“What is your problem, man?”

He pointed again. “ _That’s_ my problem.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re his problem. That he’s getting rid of. Right now. Come on, Elton.”

Elton didn’t move. He was rooted to the floor. Scared. John could smack him into a wall if he tried to walk past. There was no way he was going to let him walk out and leave.

No way.

“What’re you doing?” Bernie asked, alarmed.

Elton looked to him, stomach turning. Desperately tried to get him to understand why he was frozen solid.

Bernie shifted the bag into his other hand, then held his left hand out. “It’s okay,” he said, sweetly, as if he were talking to a small animal.

Still, Elton shook his head.

“Having second thoughts, are we, Reg?”

“Come on, Elton, it’s okay. We’re going.”

“Is this not exactly what I said would happen?” John asked. “Eloping with Bernie? You think _I’m_ a crook, yet you can’t even look at me as you’re doing exactly what I said you’d do. So ridiculous. You’re a two-faced piece of shit. You’re a liar. I couldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you, which wouldn’t be very far.”

Bernie’s visage turned stern. “Fuck off.”

Elton forced his voice. “Bernie doesn’t treat me the way you do.”

John laughed. “He will when he spends more time with you.”

Elton tightened his grip on his bag. “No, he won’t. He— I’m leaving because I can’t go on like this. With you. I told you yesterday, I showed you… I don’t need you.”

“You were the one who begged me to have you back. _I_ didn’t want you.”

“Yes, because I thought you, the way you treat me, was all I deserved. It was all I knew.”

“Oh, you’ve got a fragile little heart, don’t you?”

“Mm. Suppose so. More broken, though. I’d say.”

_“Please.”_

“I’m- I’m… not letting you break it anymore. I’m leaving. Now. For good.”

“You think so?”

He glanced at Bernie. “Yes. Now… get out of our way.”

“I’m not in your way,” John said. “You’re in your own way. I’m not stopping you from leaving. It’s you who doesn’t want to go. You don’t want to leave me.”

“He does,” Bernie said.

“Ah. Let him speak.”

“I do!” Elton cried.

“Well, go right ahead. I’d like to see you try.”

Bernie took a step closer to him. “What’s that supposed to mean? Shut your fucking mouth, man.”

“Or what?”

Bernie dropped the bag to the floor and it echoed, then he grappled the lapels of John’s blazer.

Elton’s stomach lurched, sure electricity was firing through his veins. John looked just as shocked.

“Stop it,” Elton croaked.

Neither were listening.

John chuckled, not the slightest bit threatened. He looked to Elton. “I have to give it to you, you’ve trained him pretty well.”

“No, _of course_ I’m going to do something,” Bernie said. “You’ve been abusing him for years!”

“Is that what he tells you?”

“No! Most of the time, he defended you. Because you were that good at it. I know you’re abusive because it’s fucking obvious.”

John leaned his head back, bellowing false laughter. “God, give me strength.”

“Do you not think you’re abusive? After everything you’ve done? Genuinely?”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me,” Bernie said forcefully. “He’s my best friend. And _you’ve_ dragged him to hell and back. For years, man. Years. Some of the things I _know_ you’ve done, people get locked up for. Lord knows what else you’ve done to him. He doesn’t need you, and he’s going to be just fine without you. He’s going to _thrive._ And do you know something else? He’s not just leaving you in the dirt, he’ll ruin you, as well. If this shit— _when_ this shit gets out, nobody, absolutely no one on Earth will want you within a twenty mile radius of them. That means no more money. You’ll be over, John, I promise you.” Bernie jabbed him fiercely. _“You_ are going to be the one left on your own. In every fucking sense. Not him.”

Something must have hit a nerve; John pushed against him, and they clashed.

“Stop it!” Elton yelled, and both of them unwound, but their limbs were still knotted.

Elton looked between them, then held his hand out. Bernie let go of John, taking hold of it and lifting the bag from the floor.

“This, by the way?” John pointed with a horizontal peace sign. “Is bullshit. I don’t know what either of you think it is.”

Elton and Bernie shared a glance, then made their way downstairs. As they stepped over the glass in the hall, Elton cranked the key in the door to the basement, a spur of the moment precaution, then tucked the key into his pocket.

John followed them to the porch, fixing his dishevelled suit.

Bernie held the mud-sprayed truck door open, and Elton lumbered in with the bags.

“Have fun, Bernie,” John called out sarcastically.

“We will.” Bernie tossed his hair back, looking at him over his shoulder. “You have fun, too, while you still can. Something tells me you’ll be moving out of there soon.”

Bernie shut the door, then strode around to the other side, climbing in next to him.

_“New song by Squeeze up next! This is ‘Tempted.’”_

Bernie turned the radio up and started backing out.

When they were on the other side of the gates, Elton turned to steal a glance at the man who had trapped him there for so long. He shuddered slightly, then relief overtook everything else in his body, as he faded into nothing, and _he_ was freed. Letting go of dread.

+  
  


Another Bernie-made-up bag lay in the centre of the floor three days later. It was half-open, contents still being strewn in.

Today was the day.

Timorous, a hand was at Elton’s mouth, while his other scruffed into the fur of Rhubarb’s head that was butting into him for attention. He was giving it to her, but barely aware.

Nerves were rocking his stomach, the few slabs of toast he’d forced down becoming storm-struck rafts. His appetite had increased tenfold, but his will to _want_ to eat anything remained the same. Another thing he knew was a problem now.

The thought of talking to strangers about his problems, not just those recently-discovered or to do with drugs, but things regarding how he felt, mentally—trauma—was sickening to think of. Not in a superior way, he was well aware he wasn’t above it, it just felt impossible. Like if he sat down, no words would come out. He wouldn’t know where to start.

“You’ll be fine,” Bernie said, sitting down at the opposite side of the sofa.

Elton nodded.

“You need to do it.”

“I know.”

“It’ll be difficult, but…” He folded the t-shirt he was holding and flopped it into the bag. “It won’t be as bad as you think. And everything’ll be the same when you get back. Except, better.” He tickled Rhubarb’s arched back. “You won’t be feeling like this.”

Elton nodded, but his thoughts were still deep in a swamp of doubts. “What if I can’t do it?”

“You survived John for over a decade. This should be a picnic.”

They laughed.

“Thanks, by the way.” Elton set his now-empty tea mug on the table. “For everything. But thanks for coming back… I couldn’t have done it, I wouldn’t have, without you. I’d still be there.”

“You called me.”

“Yeah, but you put the final nail in the coffin. Fuck knows I couldn’t have stood up to him like that myself.” He laughed. “Every time I think about that, it’s crazy. I never thought I’d see the day. I can’t get you grabbing him by the scruff of his neck out of my head.”

“I think that’s a _little_ bit of an embellished remembering,” Bernie said. Then he laughed, too. “It did feel cool, though.”

Elton knew he had no need to preface what he was going to say with, ‘No offence, but’.

“I never pictured you had that in you.”

“Well,” Bernie said, “you learn something new every day.” He flexed his arm. “Lifting bales of hay all day has its advantages.”

“Clearly. It was cool. And it was pretty cool being your damsel in distress.”

“Shut up.”

Elton fluttered his eyelashes with pretend coyness and Bernie playfully punched his arm.

A few seconds’ silence, something in the air.

Bernie soundlessly shuffled forward. Rhubarb meowed at her space getting infringed upon, and wound her way to the other side of Elton, tail swishing around his back.

“I know you can do this,” Bernie said.

Elton only nodded.

“I promise you.” Bernie closed more space between them and set his hand on his.

A ball of warmth pitted itself in Elton’s stomach and buzzed up to his chest. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to this. Bernie was always very tactile, but even more brazenly now.

He had next to no protests, but it was… weird.

His heart began to pound and he looked between Bernie’s eyes and mouth, trying to work out whether he could, should, or if Bernie was going to.

He parted his mouth to say something—what, he wasn’t sure—when Bernie leaned in with one smooth movement, pushing his lips to his. Elton tensed for a split second before the feeling of Bernie’s hands sweeping up his arms and into his hair relaxed him, and he sank into it.

+

Fields View was a residential mental health and drug rehabilitation centre about two hours away from Bernie’s house, similarly shrouded in neverending countryside. It was more like a castle from the outside: a cream, neo-gothic mansion. Knowing Bernie wouldn’t be far was consoling. Something about its appearance and location shaved off a portion of anxiety about the whole thing, too.

Approaching the building, Elton visualised his view from the room he’d have. The conclusion was: fields. By name and by nature.

Bernie had given him all the advice he could to ease his nerves, given that he didn’t have any experience similar. His main pointer was to be honest. Again, the thought of baring all to a stranger made him uneasy. But it had to be done if he wanted to feel better. If he wanted to get better.

Which he did.

After checking in, the first step was answering a bunch of questions—what substances are abused, how often, how long, any physical problems, and lastly, any ‘mental or emotional’ problems. The point was to craft a personalised treatment plan.

His room wasn’t what he’d imagined, per se. It was small, which his imagination had gotten right, but the air inside was thick with something sickly-sweet, like mothballs or ancient pages in a damp book. It wasn’t pleasant, but not terrible either. Something he kept going back to, tying in with what he and Bernie both assumed the course of the stay to be adjacent to in general.

The furniture was all very old-looking, walking in was like getting sucked back 100 years. The bed was slightly dilapidated, the sheets looked like they’d been soaked in tea, and the mattress was whisper-thin, but it was four-postered. So, not terrible. At least it wasn’t sterile. That would’ve been a nightmare in blinding lighting. There was an upholstered bench by the window, a spot yellowed and faded from probable years of people sitting there, staring at the view. The view was almost identical to the one his mind had come up with.

Detoxing was the next step, and resulted in over two solid weeks lying in bed for the most part, crunching the sheets of the bed in frustration and irritability, sobbing tracks down his cheeks, feeling insane coupled with a panicky fear that made him exhausted but unable to sleep. Any sleep he did get came with vivid dreams about things he wished never occurred, and sitting on that bench.

Sitting at the window had healing properties all on its own. Just like he’d thought. Most times he sat there, he wasn’t thinking about or taking in the view, but it was a nice backdrop, even when all he was thinking about was drugs and how much his body was begging for them.

They’d suggested medication to assist with the symptoms, but he turned that down and decided to do it without it.

The ramshackle record player by the bed was another lifesaver. Even though he was forbidden from seeing him, Bernie was still in the process of bringing things every so often, but the centre—perhaps ‘the mansion’ was a better way to refer to it—had its decent share of records. Jim Croce’s tender songs were a welcomed companion to days, evenings, and nights, when things seemed and were bleak. Even when Bernie had brought him a few of his own records, he’d grown an attachment to the mansion’s ‘You Don’t Mess Around With Jim,’ particularly the song ‘Operator (That’s Not The Way It Feels)’.

After another two weeks, cravings for cocaine had broken down a little, dropped their intensity, though they still came in bursts that made him feel like he wasn’t getting anywhere. But he learned that was all part of it. It didn’t undo anything. You had to feel uncomfortable in order to get to a place where you could be comfortable. That was the way it went.

Eventually, even with the occasional jerk-thought for cocaine, his body had started to heal. Scars weren’t being reopened. He wasn’t shut away from the sun anymore, so he was starting to look less ill. There was a tangible difference inside, too. Like the feeling of recuperating from a cold. Even parts of his mind felt a change. But he knew that the next step, that was therapy, was going to be where that really began to mend.

He told his assigned therapist, Dr. Paulina (“You can call me Paulina”) Green, of his reluctance about giving out his feelings to anything that wasn’t a piece of paper. She said writing was a good outlet, and that he should continue doing so. She gave him a new journal and pen. He was thankful for that, but he needed to stress his actual point, the problem was still there.

“Yeah, but I still need to talk to you, don’t I?” he had said, and it may have seemed rude, but that wasn’t his intention. He swallowed, readjusting his posture on the squeaky leather seat. “I mean, _I’ve_ never talked to a stranger about wanting to kill myself. Or realising I’m an addict. Or… being abused. Have you? It’s so personal, it feels alien to me.”

Paulina released a breath and tucked a strand of her auburn-greying hair behind her ear. “It’s difficult, Elton, to break habits you’ve had—”

“For years. I know.”

He’d learnt that a million times.

“Yes,” she said, “but it’s not impossible. You’ll find it easier the more we go on.”

He thought there was some truth to that, too.

Preparing himself for more therapy sessions, he presumed topics and wrote out answers or relative points. He restarted journaling about things he did, more mundane than ever.

_Sat and looked out the window. Listened to records. Went for a walk. Ate a jam sandwich._

Paulina began asking to read the pages he’d written, and advised him against recording the things he ate. ‘A bad habit,’ she’d called it.

Bernie was right.

Since defeating his aversion to therapy, he soon learned that he liked it. Paulina was a non-judgemental third party, whose literal job was to listen and advise. And her advice was straight-forward and honest. Apart from the advising part, she was the human equivalent of a journal. Except he didn’t get a cramp in his hand from talking to her, and hearing Paulina’s unbiased, professional feedback was a bonus he had never imagined really being helpful.

He learned where many of the roots of his addictions and troubles lay. He dug up all his demons, from childhood to now, and was taking them on one at a time. The hardest one to wrestle was John. Sometimes, talking about him was too much, and it would be left for another day. But he still had plenty of time. Each day, even the difficult ones, left him feeling a little bit better. As well as that, he was given alternatives to self-harm in all its forms he partook in, including the drug-use. He was being educated on mechanisms used to regulate one’s emotions, deal with stress, and healthy relationship building, to name a few. Grief. He was fixed on learning as much as he could. Until now, as far as he knew, he was, to put it bluntly, insane. He thought he was completely not right in the head. But that was not true. And it was comforting to know he actually wasn’t the only one who felt or thought the way he did on a regular basis. Plenty of people did. It was all about how you expressed it. How you put your next foot forward. He also learned through more tandem-work between Paulina and a psychiatrist called Dr. Lian (“Just ‘doctor’ is fine”) Evans that his issues with food and related problems with the way he looked were definitely seeded in childhood, and also in a connected disorder.

Bernie was right again. About that, and learning something new every day.

“This is one of our last sessions,” Paulina said, stubbing out her cigarette. “Is there anything you have on your mind today?”

Elton thought, staring around the little brown room. He forcibly stopped himself, reminded himself, to stop scraping at his fingernails, and sat on his hands.

“I was thinking last night,” he said colourlessly. “You know. Four AM, you can’t sleep.”

“Tell me about it,” she laughed.

“You see, lately, actually, I’ve been able to sleep really well. Anyway, last night, I couldn’t.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“I was just thinking… about when Bernie first bought his ranch,” he said. “I only remembered it last night. He’d just bought it. First time I’d ever been. He was showing me down at the stream… You know the— There’s this little collection of streams at the end of the land, past the farm part. You have to go over this field.” He shook his head. “Anyway. He was showing me them. Showing me all the wildflowers down there. All the colours of them, it was so beautiful… So warm. And there were so many butterflies. Everywhere. It was like something from a movie. That was when I truly fell in love with the ranch. It was… the place I wanted to be. Do you know what I mean?”

“Do you think that’s when you fell in love with Bernie, too?”

Elton shook his head. “No,” he said eventually. “That happened way before that.”

“How did seeing the butterflies make you feel?”

“Oh…” Elton stared at the nicotine and tar-stained walls. For what seemed like ages as he thought. Tried to remember _exactly._ When he returned from the memory, he took a steady breath, looking at her. “Happy. I guess. But it also made me feel sad.”

“Why was that?”

“Because… Bernie had told me some of them had to be the last ones of the season. They can’t survive at certain times of the year. Their life cycles are strange. It just made me kind of sad that they were all going to die.”

At the end, Paulina told him that that _was_ their last session. It made him panic for a moment. He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to deal with things without it. If he could at all.

“The amount of progress you’ve made so far, Elton, it’s tremendous. Really. You’ve came on leaps and bounds. You were shaking the first time I saw you. Quaking in your boots with fear. A lot of people don’t recover from _one_ thing over a lot of years sometimes. But you’ve improved so much, I’ve no doubts, you’ll be fine. And we’ll still be talking.”

His hands were shaking the smallest bit. He clenched them under his legs. “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Thanks.”

She pushed her glasses down a little, looking over them. “You’re a bit like those butterflies yourself, you know. Strange life cycle. But you’re only getting to the best part of yours now.”

Elton smiled. “You remind me of my nan.”

Paulina raised her eyebrows at that. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment, Elton, and not a point about my age.”

“No. It was a compliment. It was. I love her. I miss her, actually.”

“Well, there’s nothing stopping you from picking up the phone. Call her.”

“I will. You’re right. There is nothing stopping me.”

+

The _“I’ve overcome the blow,”_ line in the Jim Croce song had a new meaning.

The odd desire was there, but manageable with continued therapy. Which he was now scheduled for 2 hours of group, and 1 hour with Paulina, a week.

But, at last, he could go home.

“This is a new direction for you as well. I never pictured you setting up in the country, surrounding yourself with animals. And I have to say, I hope you don’t mind… you’re like a totally different person this time around.”

“I’d like to think so,” Elton said. “Sorry about that last time. I’ve changed a lot since then.”

“You really have. For the better.”

“Thank you. Still getting through it, you know, but I’m much happier now. I bet you are, too.”

Ambrose Martín laughed. “A lot of people will really appreciate you being so open about what you’ve went through. Not just your struggles with substances, mental illness…”

“Yup.” Elton pretended to adjust a make-believe badge on his chest. “Got myself a shiny personality disorder! And the only drugs I’m on are prescribed for me, thank you very much.”

“Yes, and the eating disorder, as well…”

“Bulimia. Yeah.”

“Yes. All of which we’ve already discussed, and thank you for that, but another thing that a lot of people will really be intrigued by and thankful for as well, is your openness about your new… relationship.”

“Look at him in there…” Elton ignored the subtle distaste or perhaps uncertainty of how to define it on Ambrose’s tongue, and pointed to Bernie hovering at the window. “Looks like he’s wondering when his husband’s returning from the great war.” He wafted an imaginary handkerchief. “Don’t worry, darling, he’s on the boat now!”

Bernie, although surely unable to properly hear, rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“He can come out here, if he likes,” Ambrose suggested.

“Oh, no, no. He’s very shy. I don’t think he’d want to.”

“That’s fine. I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

“No, ‘course not. I was getting help, not getting my essence sucked out of me.”

“But your openness…” Ambrose said, steering back the conversation.

“Oh, yes. Well, you know, it’s not something I’m ashamed of. Getting help, or being gay.” He took a measured breath. “Yes, gay. And after dealing with a previous relationship that… let’s say it wasn’t very good for me, I’m _proud_ to say that I’m in a relationship where… I’m happy. And it doesn’t fucking hurt twenty-four seven.”

He barked a laugh, but Martín didn’t and leaned in, dark eyes intrigued.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s with a man,” Elton went on. “I don’t give a fuck if it’s with my lyricist, either. I don’t see why other people care. If it was a straight relationship in the same circumstances, no one would care. They’d love it, actually. And if people don’t like it, if they want to switch the telly off when they see me or burn their records, for that, then it’s their loss.” A shrug. “Doesn’t affect me. But I would say it’s a little disheartening. Like, come on. You know? Lighten up.”

“I’d agree,” Ambrose said.

The new blue hyacinths Bernie had planted were dancing over his shoulder, catching Elton’s attention. A blue butterfly was marching around on top of one of them, then it flew off.

“I’m happy!” he burst out. “Shouldn’t that be a good thing? First time in my fucking life, truly happy. That’s a feat for me. I hope everyone, even those people, feel as happy as I have recently at some point. Maybe it’d make them lighten up a bit.”

“You mentioned there, about a past relationship…”

Elton theatrically winced, clutching at his chest. “Don’t hit me with that one.”

“Oh, we don’t have to go there if you don’t want to—we can cut that bit out. I apologise.”

“No, it’s not really that…” Elton reached for the glass of frozen orange juice, just orange juice, that was now reduced to slush, and took a sip. “Isn’t that juice good? Bernie made that. Just oranges, nothing alcoholic about it. Well, apart from the one drinking it now, but that’s besides the point.”

Ambrose took a courteous sip and nodded. “It is. It’s good.”

“Anyway.” Finishing a second sip, Elton returned the glass to the table. “What was I talking about? Oh. Past relationship. The main reason I can’t talk about it is because the other person reaaally wouldn’t like that. But I will say… two things.” Another drink, wiping his mouth, then holding up two fingers. “First: worst fucking time of my life. Hands down. And it was actually my first relationship, too. Despite anything I’ve told anyone in the past.” A laugh, and Martín’s eyebrows flicked up. “Yes, with a man. From about…” he waggled his fingers in thought, “I’d say ‘69. Really bad. Not at the start, but you know, that’s how they get you. Second thing, Ambrose, my dear friend, only _you_ are going to get what I’m saying right now, so listen carefully—it’s up to you what you do with it. A hint. The person…” His eyes quickly switched to the camera readily zooming in, phantom wariness. He looked back at Ambrose and put a finger on the table. “The person who let you in on me being here, and who let all those lovely people know…” he pointed to the buzzing throng of people on the other side of the gate at the end of the path, _“might_ have something to say about it.”

Ambrose’s eyebrows shot up again.

Elton flashed a smile, tugging his sleeve further down his wrist. “Whether what he’d tell you would be true or not, I don’t know. But that’s all I’ll say. Who knows, maybe I’ll divulge more tidbits another time. Wait, another thing. One more. Just like the people who… aren’t going to like me anymore, I feel bad for him in a way, too.” He was swiping his fingers against the moist glass, fingers impossibly cold. “You know? Like… I don’t know, it’s difficult to articulate such a thing. He treated me like dirt, made me feel like dirt, but for him to do that to someone, he must go to some really dark places himself. Doesn’t make up for anything he did, that’s not what I’m saying. Doesn’t mean I’ll forget anything he did, or even forgive him. Not yet. Maybe some day. But… I do feel bad, in a way, because he’s obviously struggling with something. I hope he… changes. That’s all. If not, if he can’t own up to it, then I suppose it sucks to be him.”

“Thanks for sharing that.”

Elton finished his drink, nodding.

“No, really,” Ambrose said, “I appreciate you talking about that. Again, I’m sure a lot of people will.”

“Yeah.”

“So, this new, happy Elton John… is he going to make more music? Tour?”

“Yeah, I think he is. I know he is. I was honestly— I was super lost. But, getting help, it wasn’t a resignation, it’s what’s made me feel like I can carry on. We’re working on stuff, Bernie and I, already… Stuff’s going to happen soon.”

“And touring? That’s back on the cards?”

“Yes. Definitely. I’m actually looking forward to that.”

“We all are,” Ambrose said, smiling.

“Funny thing is,” Elton laughed, bugging his eyes comically wide and fidgeting with his lower lip, “well, not really funny, I suppose. I still have to work with ‘aforementioned person.’”

Ambrose’s face became shocked again.

“Yeah, so that’s…” he inhaled past his teeth, “gonna be something for a while.”

“To say the least,” Ambrose said.

“Right. But, you know, I’m past it. The relationship part. I don’t feel anything, and I’m sure he never did, so I’m just hoping we can be civil enough to get work done, then he can fuck off after the contract’s up.”

They shared a laugh then Elton raised his hands.

“No, I’m kidding. Well, not really. But I don’t think we’ll have any real issues in the meantime. It’ll be fine. God, you’d think I’m someone who goes around shagging all the people I work with. I can assure you I don’t. Just the two, folks, just the two.”

Ambrose laughed, maybe embarrassed. He set his glass back on the table. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me today. For agreeing to do this special with me. It’s a first for both of us.”

“Didn’t get that last time, did you?”

Laughing again, Ambrose held out his hand. “It was nice.”

Elton shook his hand firmly. “It was. Pleasure was all mine.”

“Maybe we can catch up again.”

“I’m sure we can.”

Ambrose stood, and Bernie came out of the house.

“Ah, look,” Elton said, softly, like he was pointing out the presence of a deer.

“Everything alright?” Bernie asked, lifting the glasses from the table, passing a brief smile to the camera.

Elton bit his lip, fawning. “Isn’t he just a cherub? You’d think I employ the poor boy to do things like this.”

“That orange juice was very good,” Ambrose said, then he pushed his hair back. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Bernie said, and they shook hands.

“Thanks for letting us into your home. And letting us do this.” Ambrose smiled between them, then leaned in to shake Elton’s hand a second time. “It’s good to see you doing so much better, man. I can’t wait to see what you do with the new music.” He looked between them again. “Can we… get a shot of you guys?”

They looked to each other, then Elton cinched his arm around Bernie’s waist, and Bernie did the same back, both pulling each other close. Elton grinned, radiantly happy, and Bernie smushed his lips to the side of his face.

Panic first. But then it made his mouth the shape of an O before he passed it back, planting a kiss on Bernie’s lips.

It’d be everywhere.

For once, he didn’t mind.

He hoped it would be.

+

Belgium wasn’t Jamaica. But Jamaica wasn’t Belgium.

For Bernie’s birthday that had passed three months ago, when he was getting treatment, that was where they went. Considering Jamaica’s current stance on men in relationships with other men, even the mere act of men holding hands, Belgium was a good alternative.

They brought Julianna and Sam along, and stayed in an idyllic hotel complete with a personal pool on the huge balcony.

Among the many things he had learned, he realised he hadn’t been in love with Warren. In lust? Definitely. But he had, and still did, love him. Dearly. Just not in that way.

They were to spend a week there, catching up and taking to the streets and sights like everyday tourists. Only getting bothered the odd time. But it was fine. They mainly wanted pictures or something signed. It felt slightly off only because he hadn’t been used to it in so long.

It was a good thing.

On the final day before having to return home, they hung out by the pool, lying around, listening to music, then losing their minds laughing at Julianna as she slopped her soaking hat to the pavement. She was just after being bucked off the inflatable swan she was tipsily balancing on, heading head-first into the water. She also thought it was the funniest thing on earth and dried herself off just enough to sit back at the table that the others were still seated at after a hearty banquet of assorted sandwiches, shrimp, and meatballs.

“What did I say? I told you not to go swimming after eating,” Sam quipped, and Julianna imitated wringing her locks of hair over him, not squeezing hard enough to actually drench him.

“It had nothing to do with that and everything to do with being pissed!” she said, then swiped a leftover shrimp from the bowl and into some of the ginger dipping sauce before eating it.

“Hey.” Elton sat forward, pulling his eyes away from the drinks on the table long enough to look at her. “Thought you didn’t eat animals.”

“Don’t eat meat,” she said, lifting another. “Technically, these aren’t meat. They’re basically, like, bugs.”

Elton looked to Bernie to clarify, and he shrugged.

“They are, I suppose. Next best thing to a bug,” he said. “Ocean’s bug.”

“Ew.” Elton put a hand to his throat. “I wouldn’t have eaten thirty of them if I’d known that.”

Elton’s focus fixed back on the champagne sitting next to Sam’s hand, then watched it make its way to his lips, and Bernie purposefully set his hand on his leg, like an anchor.

Being around other people who were drinking alcohol was another weird thing. He had to keep reminding himself, justifying, why he couldn’t. And that he had to get used to it. He wouldn’t be able to avoid it for the rest of his life. Sometimes, he couldn’t help feeling like he was missing out on something, even though, in reality, he knew he wasn’t. Every time he felt a little off or stared at a sparkling glass too long to be natural, Bernie knew, because of course he did, and would cradle his hand or rest his hand on his leg the way he was doing now. And it would remind him. Reassure him.

“They’ve got to be cold by now,” Sam said, wrinkling his brow.

“So?” She lifted another. “It’s still good, it’s not gonna kill me.”

“Julie has a point,” Elton said, stretching his limbs out. “Some of this food’s the best I’ve eaten in ages. I’d still eat it cold too, if I wasn’t so fucking full.”

“See? Elton gets it.”

“Probably not the shrimp, though. You’ve kinda put me off.”

“Hey,” Sam said. “So you know, again, if I’d’ve known you had issues with drugs and alcohol, I would’ve laid off on presenting them to you at every chance I got. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t even consider it a problem myself at the time. It’s not your fault.”

“And you’re really sure you don’t mind us having a drink?”

“Yes, it’s fine. I told you. I’m… more than happy with my apple juice.”

Sam smiled. “It’s cool that Bernie’s laying off the hard juice with you.”

“Yeah, I appreciate it…” Elton swallowed, and felt Bernie tighten his hand on his leg. “I didn’t ask him to. I told him, just like I told you guys, he can drink all he likes, but…”

“But he’s just that sweet!” Julianna said.

Elton smiled.

Sam nodded. “We could all stand to take a break from it now and then.”

“And I’ll drink to that,” Bernie said, raising his glass of apple juice.

“Ooh, I hope you like your present, B,” Julianna said earnestly, her fingers now entwined with Sam’s on the plush tablecloth. “We forgot—sorry—so it _was_ last minute, but then I remembered Elton telling us one time that you were into plants, so we got you that!”

They’d gotten him a rubber plant that now sat in the hotel room behind them.

“Oh, yeah.” Bernie turned back to look at one of its glossy leaves peeking around the door. “It’s really beautiful, thank you guys so much.”

“You’re welcome! Have you got any already?”

“No, actually. I don’t.”

“Oh, good! I wondered if it was, like, a bit basic, and I got all worried.”

“No!” Bernie assured, laughing. “It’s great.”

“It’s a hardy plant, apparently, so I thought it was a good call. For travelling with. You know?”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Plus, they’re very low maintenance so I thought it’d be perfect, you know? ‘Cause even Elton could look after it for you when you’re doing your other farmer duties!”

A flurry of laughter.

“That’s a real burn!” said Sam.

“No!” Julianna protested, still giggling.

“You know what, I’m not even offended.”

“Yeah, ‘cause, see, I remembered you telling me you had no clue about, like, plants, so I thought… perfect!”

“I don’t recall this conversation,” Elton said. “But I believe you, because you’re absolutely right. I don’t know a thing about plants, I’d probably kill them all if it were left to me.”

“And,” Julianna continued, one finger raised, “they’re supposed to be good luck, according to feng shui.”

“You really went all-out researching this,” Bernie said.

“Dude. I did! Because I wanted to impress you!”

“You can consider me impressed.”

“I thought it’d be cute,” Julianna mused, fist propping up her head now. “Since you guys have, like, officially moved in together and all. Kind of like a housewarming present. Because it’s supposed to bring, like, good fortune, an abundance of happiness.”

“Not that they need that,” Sam chipped in.

“I know, but a little extra luck doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Guess not.”

“When are you two gonna get married?” Julianna asked, eyes wild, clapping her hand to the table with a hard knock from the rings she was wearing.

Elton snorted. “What planet are you on? Whatever one it is, your social norms haven’t made it here yet, that’s for sure.”

Julianna took a swig of her champagne. “Give it time.”

“Right, maybe in fifty years.”

“As Joni Mitchell once said, they don’t need no piece of paper from no city hall,” Sam said. “They’ve acted like an old, married couple for years.”

Julianna finger-gunned towards him. “That’s true.”

“Even _before_ they knew they were in love with each other.”

Elton felt a hot orb of light sprout in his chest that spread its roots of warmth around him, making him smile and unconsciously reach for Bernie’s hand below the table. Bernie held his fingers gently, and his unoccupied hand reached for his own apple juice.

“That’s because it’s true love!” Julianna cried, clasping her hands together. “Can you believe we’re on a couples’ holiday right now? We need to do this again. Even when we’re at home, we need to get together when we’re all free and have little double-dates!”

“Oh, definitely,” Elton agreed.

“It’s so fun! Isn’t it?”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed, drinking.

They sat there until dusk, then collectively brought the dishes and silverware back inside. They slumped together like sardines, four-abreast on the couch in front of the glow of the television.

“I never wanted this to end,” Julianna said, with a hint of melancholy.

Elton could relate. This was the most fun he’d had in a long time, though at the same time, he couldn’t wait to get back to England.

“I know,” he sighed, plucking a decorative pillow out from behind him to lay it over his belly, then he leaned back against Bernie’s arm, pinning it down.

Sam pressed a kiss to Julianna’s cheek.

“You know who would have loved it?”

Elton’s stomach tightened and he drew a gasp. Bernie’s free hand picked his up. He looked at Julianna and she looked at him, glassy eyes reflecting the TV screen.

It had only been a few months.

Elton nodded, unable to add anything. They took each other’s hand, then Sam completed the chain.

Elton kept nodding.

_He would have._

+

“Why? It’s not my birthday.”

Elton asked this, kicking a loose pebble across the ground and shoving his hands into the pockets of the oversized, puffy parka Bernie had bought him months before. It wasn’t overly cold yet, but today had provided a glimpse of what was surely to come. It was the 12th of September.

Bernie clicked in the corner of his mouth, and Faye stepped closer.

“What’s that got to do with it?” he asked, stroking the horse’s nose as he fixed the bridle over her head. “Can’t I just give you presents when I feel like it?”

Elton shrugged, kicking another pebble. “Sure.”

“What’s the fuss, then?” Bernie patted the horse gently, smirking. “If you don’t want it, that’s okay, I’ll just give it back.”

“I do want it,” Elton said, leaning his foot back on its heel. “I just don’t feel like going all the way over those fields… I don’t wanna fuck up my shoes.”

“That’s why I got you those other shoes.”

Elton rolled his eyes with exaggerated annoyance.

“And if you care so much about _those_ shoes…” Bernie took hold of Faye’s reins and nodded to his foot that was scuffing another pebble across the ground, “you should stop doing that with them.”

Elton gave a forged grunt of vexation and a defiant shove to another stone, then turned to go back inside to fetch the burly ankle boots in question, from where they’d remained unmoved from the line of shoes at the front door.

“Better?”

“Yes,” Bernie said, too-pleased.

“They’re fucking ugly.”

“They’re supposed to be, so you won’t care about them getting dirty.”

“Touché.”

“Would you’ve preferred ones like mine?” Bernie asked, modelling his almost-knee-high well-worn yard boots.

“Honestly, yes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Here,” Bernie said, holding out the reins. “Get on.”

Elton drew in a hard breath and released it noisily. He wasn’t scared of Faye. Out of the three of Bernie’s horses, she was the least intimidating. She was still a huge animal, but she was calm and collected, and that was why Bernie had always let him ride her any time that was the day’s activity, even though she was clearly his favourite, too. He claimed not to have any favourites, but he looked at Faye with a certain fondness that was stronger than with the others.

Elton approached her and patted her coarse hair, then realised she hadn’t any stirrups attached to her saddle.

“How am I meant to get on?”

“I’ll lift you up.”

“Fuck off. You’re smaller than I am.”

“So?”

“You can’t lift me.”

Bernie stepped closer, eyes slitted daringly. “Do you wanna bet?”

“How much?”

“C’mere.” Bernie moved behind him and put his hands on his waist firmly. “Are you ready?”

Elton grabbed the rim of the saddle, and his other hand held onto Bernie’s. “To fall on my ass? Yeah. Sure.”

Bernie counted to two then hoisted him up, and Elton scrambled on. Bernie handed the reins to him.

“Told you,” he said, with another far-too-pleased grin. He set his hand on the small of Elton’s back, asking with the utmost sincerity, “Now, is everything else still fresh? You remember how to do it?”

“‘Course I do,” Elton replied confidently, looking ahead at the fields past the fence.

“Right.” Bernie patted his back then went back to the stables. “Trigger, come on.”

Elton turned back to watch him bring the other horse out, already bridled up and ready to go. Trigger was a shimmery black horse, a Friesian cross, if Elton’s memory served him correctly.

Josie, a subtle powder-grey pony, followed behind in her birthday suit.

“Look who’s returning to our silver screen!” Elton said as Bernie passed him.

Bernie’s face flushed and he shook his head, steadying the giant horse to a halt in front, then hopping on its back with great finesse.

He was more of a cowboy than Roy Rogers ever was. Elton would tell him that, except he wouldn’t take it as a compliment. He’d be offended on Rogers’ behalf. Didn’t make it any less true though.

“Why no stirrups, cowboy?” Elton asked, throwing his voice. Josie, behind him, exhaled with a snort, shaking her head.

“Because,” Bernie turned Trigger in a half-circle, “you haven’t done it before.”

Faye was shifting her weight back and forth. Elton tightened his grip.

“What if I fall off?”

“You won’t,” Bernie said. “She’ll be following me anyway, so all you have to worry about is holding on. The only difference without the stirrups is you’ll have to keep your back a little straighter than you normally would. And keep your knees where they are, gently. Just focus on keeping your balance. Okay?”

Elton pushed his shoulders back. “Right.”

“Ready?”

“Yup.”

Every time he got on a horse, Elton felt a little apprehensive, but once things got moving, he was fine. Empowered, even. The gentle swaying and rhythmic patting of hooves on dewy grass was calming, the soft rush of wind that rustled the trees and ran alongside them, refreshing. The only things that he was still unaccustomed to were the height and the occasional bump that caused his stomach to momentarily flip, and the extra fat there to jiggle. He was able to phase out thinking about the latter when he refocused on the nature around him and Bernie and Trigger’s fluid gait, and breathed in the crisp air. All of it, combined, was deeply nourishing. He thought of things without really thinking, just letting the sensations pass through. Restoring something inside of him. Freeing something at the same time.

They reached the point where the grassland orbed out, ending trimmed with a wall of trees. Beyond that, the wooded area. Streams. Elton wondered if there were any butterflies around this time of year.

Bernie hopped off and came over to assist Elton in getting back down, keeping hold of his hand after.

“I don’t see anything,” Elton said, looking around. He tilted his head, trying to see if there was a secret present among the group of apple trees to his left.

“This way.” Bernie clicked for all three horses’ attention as he moved the other way, to another bunch of trees to the right, swinging their hands between them.

Pulling back a branch, he allowed Elton to slip ahead of him, then let go of it, and it pinged back.

“Look,” he said, lifting his other hand to point out the now-clear pond reflecting the last of the sun the sky had to offer past the trees, surrounded by tiny boulders.

They approached it slowly.

“A pond? You got a pond put in your garden? It’s lovely.”

“Our garden,” Bernie said. “And not just that, look what’s in it.”

Elton craned his neck to see and then laughed, surprised.

A vast cluster of koi, probably around twelve, almost all differing in colour scheme, serenely swimming around each other through threads of plants and under lily pads.

“That’s so cool!” Elton’s hands leapt to his cheeks. “We’ve got fish!”

“You like ‘em?”

“I love them…” Elton looked back at their harmonious dance below the surface. “Thank you.”

“You wanted a goldfish, so I took it up a notch.”

“You fucking did, those things are massive!”

“Yeah, and they’ll probably get a lot bigger.”

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Bernie said, letting go of his hand to flap his wrist.

“I think everything of it,” Elton countered, unblinking, then watched as Bernie hobbled out of his shoes and socks. “What’re you doing?”

Bernie shrugged, setting them onto the grass and walking to the edge of the pond, rolling his trousers up to his knees.

“No way…”

“What?” Bernie asked.

“That’s gross!”

“For me or the fish?”

“Both!”

“Come on, live a little.”

“I can assure you, I’ve had a lot of live-a-little moments, and standing in a manky pond was never one of them.”

 _“Hey,_ it’s not manky.” Bernie pouted.

“Fine, but I’m still not getting in.”

“I’m not asking you to get in,” Bernie said, slowly wading into the water until it lined with his calves. “Just dip your feet in.”

Elton’s arms shrunk into his coat at the thought. “Ew. Nuh-uh.”

Bernie clapped his hand to his dusty and faded jeans. “Oh, come on.”

“I don’t want fish touching me.”

“They won’t touch you,” Bernie replied incredulously. “What do you think they’re gonna do?”

“Nothing, they’re just slimy.”

“Well, they’re not even bothering with me.” Bernie pointed down. “Look.”

They weren’t, it was like he was another plant. They swirled around him gracefully.

Bernie paddled with his hand then held it out, laughing. “Come on!”

Elton looked around at the three horses grazing behind him, and the dog running wild, then swivelled back, taking Bernie’s hand to balance him as he edged a boot off.

“At least I’m getting to take these hideous shoes off.”

“Quit bullying the shoes, Elton.”

Trousers rolled up, Elton hesitantly sploshed into the cool water, fish scattering at the break in their routine at first, then resuming with their dreamy pace.

He registered the marshiness below his feet and wrinkled his nose at Bernie.

“It’s not that bad,” Bernie said.

Elton looked down at the fish. “Suppose not… How long do they live for?”

“I think, like, thirty or more years.”

Elton smiled. “Wow.”

“You were really good at riding her,” Bernie said after a moment. He nodded towards Faye, who was staring back at them. She swished her tail, probably batting away flies.

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. The glimpses I got, anyway. You were a lot more balanced than I’ve ever seen you before.”

“Thanks,” Elton said. “When you said if I didn’t come down to look at what you got me, you were going to send it back,” he looked to him, away from the hypnotic swirl of koi, “how were you thinking of doing that exactly?”

“Shut up.” Bernie looked ahead, smile creeping in. “It was just talk.”

Elton looked back at the fish—his fish. Some were padding into him, but it wasn’t as gross as he thought it was going to be. It was kind of sweet.

“What about when it does get cold?” he asked, feeling an attachment to them already blooming, already overly endeared. “What happens if the water freezes over?”

“Don’t worry. If it ever looks like that’ll happen, I was gonna bring them up to the house. I got another pond, it’s in the garage. It’ll be cosy for them there.”

“I love you,” Elton said, quietly, in awe of his sweetness.

Bernie smiled and squeezed his hand, and it said the same thing back.

They stood there not saying anything, still holding hands, as the world carried on around them, and Elton thought about it. About everything.

Two fish, exactly the right size to be in the same pond.

“Thanks, Bernie.”

“It’s okay.”

“No… I mean, for everything. Everything you’ve ever done for me.”

“Well, I guess I’ll say thanks to you, too.”

“You saved my life.”

Bernie nodded steadily.

“You’ve saved my life a billion times and in a billion different ways,” Elton said. “I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for that… There’s nothing I can do or say that can be enough.”

“You don’t have to say or do anything. You being here… that’s enough for me to know that. And you saved your own life, don’t forget that. I helped a little, sure, but you’re the one who actually did it. You can bring a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” He swivelled to gesture to the horses behind them, then back again, looking into his eyes. “You did that yourself.”

“So…” Elton paused for a while as he tried to think of a genuine response, then his lips buckled. “I’m a horse?”

Bernie’s head fell backwards and he looked at him from the corner of his eye. “I’m just trying to get you to give yourself the credit you deserve.”

“I know… I know. Thank you.”

+

“Back for good this time, Elton?” Joe asked, pulling open the door to his same grey truck. It was even older-looking now, but still worked. Noisily. Joe himself looked a little greyer on top.

“Oh, yup. You won’t be getting rid of me now.”

Joe smiled. “Wouldn’t want to. See you tomorrow.”

Returning to the house, Elton’s glasses fogged as they walked in the door. He took them off, carefully rubbing them with his jumper before slipping them back on. He kicked off his boots and propped his feet in front of the fireplace Bernie had lit.

“You must be cold,” said Bernie.

He was, a little, and his feet were still a tad damp, but that wasn’t the true motivation. It just felt like the right thing to do. The same exhilaration that willed a child to get out of bed at 6AM on Christmas morning.

Bernie brought a mug of hot chocolate over and flopped down beside him, cross-legged on the tapestry rug, sipping at his own.

After jabbing at the embers in the fireplace, stirring up the heat, and finishing their beverages, Bernie announced that he needed to go and feed the rest of his brood. Elton would have wanted to go along, for the hell of it, but then he looked out the window at the dulling sky, compared it to the smouldering heat in his socks, and lost his interest. He could go tomorrow.

“I think I’d rather stay warm,” he told him.

“You do that,” Bernie said, lifting his coat off the rack. Mud bounced up off the floor and barked, and the two cats ambled towards him, tails in the air, knowing the routine. Knowing they’d get fed next.

“Might have a bath,” Elton said, fondly watching them all parade to the door.

Bernie nodded, zipping his coat up to the top. “You do that.”

He watched them step out, and the draught that pushed its way inside caused him to squint. He sat on for another beat of time before getting up and spiralling up the stairs, ignoring the creaks the tired wood gave.

He hadn’t had a bath since finding Warren dead in one.

The very thought had filled him with ominousness that was nearly paralysing, so he’d taken to strictly showering instead. Even that hadn’t been often.

Thinking of Warren still hurt. Constant and gnawing at him. Some days less than others. Some, more. A lot of the time he was still being crushed by guilt for it. He still had the dreams. He knew he’d always miss him. 

Pushing the door to Bernie’s en suite open, then turning on the light, the buttermilky hues set his mind at ease as they always did, illuminating him, heat fading from his feet as they walked on the tile.

He had his bath, and after, towel wrapped around his waist, he looked at himself in the steamed mirror. His stomach was still alight with the hot chocolate, and now his entire body matched its warmth once again, steam rising off him like mist off a meadow. He took in every detail, from the fuzz that covered the reformed doughiness of his belly and lent itself to his equally as soft chest, to the self-inflicted and still-raised slices on his arms that he’d just kindly bathed. Freckles. He touched one of the scars, the bunched up skin it was made of felt rough. He still didn’t know how to feel about it. Or his reflection at all. But at least he recognised who it was.

Bernie joined him in the mirror, slowly from the hallway.

Elton didn’t turn, he looked at him through the mirror, offering a thin smile.

Bernie stepped behind him, placing his chin in the spot where his shoulder dipped and became his neck. He seemed to analyse Elton through the mirror himself, then his eyes met his.

“I’m okay,” Elton whispered, even though Bernie had said nothing.

Bernie smiled, settling a hand on his side.

“Ew.” Elton batted his hand, not actually wanting it to move. “Don’t touch me, you’ve been out feeding a bunch of animals. _I’m_ clean.”

“Obviously I washed my hands,” Bernie said, “I’m in the middle of making _us_ something to eat now.”

He pecked a kiss to his cheek, then turned from the mirror, but Elton lingered, tilting his head.

“You love this?”

Bernie rejoined him, looking. “I do.”

He knew he wasn’t lying.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bernie asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

Elton doubted he’d ever love what he was looking at.

He held back on giving a smart answer and shrugged instead.

But as he focused, he appreciated that his body was still mending. Like the rest of him. As a result, he looked lived-in. Like Bernie’s phone that was happily pinned back to the wall in the hallway. It gave him… character. But it didn’t define who he was.

Bad was no longer all he could see.

“Can we eat it in bed?” he asked.

Bernie gave a nod. “Sure.”

Elton cosied himself in bed, relishing in sweet songs whistling through the record player speakers. ‘Our House’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young was one of them. He also relished in the scent of the clean linen and the traces of elderflower that perfumed them, the candles he’d just lit, and the aroma of something good wafting up the stairs.

Bernie held the two bowls out with a flourish, steam misting from them.

“Mango chicken stir fry,” he said, so fast, it sounded like it was all one word.

“Ooh.” Elton sat up eagerly and patted down the air-filled pocket the duvet made on his lap. He took his bowl graciously with both hands.

“Enjoy!” Bernie hopped in beside him.

“I will.” Elton lifted the fork. “Oh,” he remembered, “remind me to call my nan after this.”

“Will do. Good idea.”

Fifteen minutes later, they had both eaten, and were relaxed.

Bernie shifted, arms fixing themselves around him to bring their already-impossibly close bodies closer together. Elton rolled onto his side, and Bernie fixed his chin into the gentle dip that bridged Elton’s shoulder to his neck. Elton’s heartbeat got faster and he couldn’t help laughing, rocking his head back as if Bernie was tickling him.

“Fuck off.”

“What?”

“This,” Elton said, settling his tingling body back against him. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. It’s so…”

Bernie laughed too, though his resembled a hum more than anything against his skin. “Weird?”

“Surreal.”

“Weird, in a good way.”

“Yup.” Elton rolled back over, their noses almost brushing. “Exactly that.”

Elton trailed a finger along Bernie’s forearm, goosebumps sprouting along the line he drew. His teeth nipped his lower lip, disbelieving the fact he’d given Bernie goosebumps.

Bernie smiled at him, eyes soft.

“I really want to kiss you,” Elton said. He took a shallow breath. “Can I?” 

Bernie nodded, and Elton pressed his lips to his, palm cupping his warm cheek. They kissed, tender, slow; hands and minds got lost. They were still new to each other.

“You know…” Bernie pulled away, before sinking back in to press another kiss to his nose. “The only time you’re looking at yourself is when you’re looking for something to criticise.”

Elton snorted, shyness returning.

“Hear me out,” Bernie said. “You don’t see yourself… when you’re squealing over a new outfit, or _shoes,_ or when you’re pissing yourself laughing, or— Any of that. Even how you look right now. You look _good_. Trust me.” He swept his thumb across Elton’s bottom lip, then sneaking his thumb under his glasses, did the same, even more gently, to his eyelashes. “And you’re the only guy I’ve ever really been attracted to. That must say something.”

Elton was touched, genuinely, but had to make it funny.

“Oh dear, I’m afraid it does. That’s unfortunate for you,” he said, subconsciously letting his belly fall against Bernie’s. “I’d say that’s the first time in history looking at a pig has ever made anybody gay. You should look into that, phone up The Guinness Book of Records, you might win something.”

“Hey. Stop that. You’re not a pig.”

“I suppose I am the next best thing to a girl, actually…” Elton pushed his chest together. “I’ve got the tits.”

“Shut up.” Bernie rolled onto his back, arm behind his head, and Elton propped himself up to look at him. His kiss-rubied lips, his tousled hair. Elton pushed a stray piece from his beautiful face.

“And you didn’t _turn me gay_ ,” Bernie said. “I don’t know if I’m gay. I’m not sure. Well, probably not, but I’ve always been, you know, open to the idea of… fancying guys. Deep down.”

“Oh, please. You don’t have to beat around the bush talking to me. You’re bisexual, it’s fine.”

“Yeah. That’s probably it.”

“While we’re on the subject…” Elton curved his body against his, slipping a hand onto Bernie’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Of, you know, being open and deep down and everything. When are we going to fuck?”

Bernie grimaced, physically recoiling at the brusque phrasing.

“Reg!” he laughed breathily, then looked back at the ceiling, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know… I don’t know! We’ll get to that. It’ll happen when it happens. I’m already pretty certain on how I feel about getting fucked, though, so…”

“Hey now, don’t be so conservative.” Elton lightly smacked his chest, then waggled an authoritative finger. “Don’t knock something ‘til you’ve tried it.”

The corners of Bernie’s mouth turned down in deliberation. “Alright, fair enough.”

“We’ll ease into it.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Elton squawked with laughter. “I meant figuratively. And if you don’t like it, that’s fine, but listen to me…”

Bernie looked at him, listening.

“It’s good,” he whispered. “I swear.”

Elton kissed the spot between his eyes, exhaling a laugh that made Bernie’s eyelashes flutter, then rolled back over, shimmying into the warmth below the sheets, and Bernie followed, reclaiming his spot at his back, hugging him from behind, lips resting by his temple.

“You know I love you,” Elton said.

“Yeah. And I hope you know how much I love you.”

“I do.”

“I _love_ you,” Bernie said. “So proud of you. I wish that people, _life_ had’ve treated you with more kindness. Then, maybe, you would’ve been more compassionate to yourself. I wish I’d been able to love you sooner. Things can only get better, though.”

“They already have.”

Rhubarb slinked up, fixing herself under Elton’s arm, and Custard filtered into the slant of his legs, both cats’ rattling purrs filling the quiet. Then Mud’s collar jingled before she leapt from the floor, trampling on top of their entwined legs, then pooled below them.

Bernie laughed. “And I hope you can get used to that.”

Elton smiled, knowing Bernie couldn’t see, but knowing he knew.

“I don’t have to.”

You don’t need to get accustomed to home.

He had a family. This was it. It was no longer a secondary home, a home-from-home. It was home.

He had friends he loved, who he knew loved him. His and Bernie’s record collections were merged as one, in a spare guest room.

Above all, he had Bernie. Bernie was home, like he always had been. And Bernie had him.

Unconditional love.

Dot was even going to be lending a hand, working there. He was seeing Paulina in two days’ time. And Elton was excited, looking forward to starting to work again. But he was in no rush. All in good time.

Somehow, everything had worked out. And it was going to keep getting better. He just had to keep taking each moment as it came. Practice while he was still learning.

“Oh, Elton,” Bernie whispered excitedly. “Elton, look. Quick.”

Elton looked over his shoulder.

A little blue butterfly, fringed with black, was sitting on the window sill outside, its wings fluttering slowly, at a heartbeat’s pace.

Elton gasped. “The butterflies are back.”

“I don’t think they ever left. Sometimes you still see the odd individual out around this time of year. But this is probably the last we’ll see of them for a while now. How lucky are we?”

“What’s it doing out so late? It’ll get dark soon.”

“He’s probably just resting a second. He’ll make his way home in a minute.”

Then, as if Bernie was the narrator to a world-sized story, the butterfly proved him right and took to the air, vanishing in the blink of an eye.

Elton shut his eyes with a content sigh, fleecey blanket pulled up to his chest that was tightened, ready to burst, with love.

He was at home. And it wasn’t too late.

For anything.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this story!  
> Anything you wanna comment is welcome and appreciated!  
> I wrote it about a year ago, but only got around to posting it anywhere now.  
> it actually means a little something to me.  
> I'm currently working on something else that definitely doesn't go to such depths. Super different. Just for fun.  
> I hope you'll like it, too.  
> Oh, and the link to most of the songs is in the beginning notes of chapter one. If you want them.  
> I'm on twitter: @eltonhercuology  
> and instagram: @bluemooves (this is mostly, like, my art)  
> and tumblr: @boogiepilgrim (this is my fan account; come and party with me. we have a good time there. strike up a convo if you wanna!!!!!!!)  
> 


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